


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by getoffmyrichard



Series: rhapsody in viridescent gold [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (literally. found in the woods specifically), Accidental Child Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Elf OC, Cockblocking, Crack Treated Seriously, Elvish, Family Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Glacially Slow Build, Hurt/Comfort, Isekai, Language Barrier, Light-Hearted, Medical Inaccuracies, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Music, Musical References, No Tenth Walker, No beta reader, Original Elf Character(s) - Freeform, POV First Person, Parent-Child Relationship, Rivendell | Imladris, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Third Age, Time Skips, Worldbuilding, accidental parent acquisition, and all of it is romanticized, and fictitious, and inaccurate, background Erestor/Glorfindel pining, but they're totally a side thing don't even worry about it, daily life, do not take tips from this, don't except anything good, entirely too much attention paid to homesteading, essays about toilets (threat), i am going to spend so much time in the OC's childhood you will be begging me to time skip, i'm only posting this because i was bullied into it, it's year 1005 of the Third Age we're going nowhere quickly, listen. that's only for the Drama idk what i'm actually doing, no editing we die like glorfindel, overprotective Elves, poems and songs, that is a threat and a promise, warning: all of my setting knowledge comes from fic and movies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 65,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27409063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyrichard/pseuds/getoffmyrichard
Summary: Elves go bonkers over children. Children are precious, gentle beings that are so rare it's a miracle that one is born. Elves think children need to be coddled and protected. So how would they react if they found an elven child who was fiercely independent, borderline savage, and only liked one person in the whole settlement who was just as standoffish and distant from everyone like she is?Or: I can't promise you much, but I can promise you an unconventional LOTR OC that is a) not a Tenth Walker, b) not in love with Legolas, and c) says the word 'fuck' with regularity.Updates every Monday.
Relationships: Erestor & Original Character
Series: rhapsody in viridescent gold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050044
Comments: 2216
Kudos: 1499





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for real i'm only posting this bc my friend said i should but this is really not quality at all bros. it's literally a hot mess. this is self indulgent crack.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all starts at the beginning. So right about now!

  
  


_I’m gonna fight the sun_ , is my first coherent thought as I raise an arm to block the glaring rays from assaulting my eyes from even behind my goddamn eyelids. It’s followed by: _why the fuck are my windows open_ and then _why the fuck does everything hurt_.

My body feels like one big bruise and my head, good fucking god, my head. My brain feels like someone pried it out of my skull, used it as a punching bag a la Rocky style, and shoved it back in again. The copious amount of sun really isn’t helping either. I turn on my side, grabbing at my blankets that--

Aren’t--

There--

I open my eyes.

All at once the world rushes in. The sun falls in beams through the canopy of trees overhead, glimmering with each brush of the pine-scented breeze. I can feel the ground beneath me, rocky and uncomfortable and smelling strongly of mulch. There’s the sound of running water nearby, of birds in the air, of the wind moving leaves. All of that, in an instant.

I bolt upright, panic surging in my veins and scrambling to my feet.

“What the fuck?” I say aloud. To my left, I see only tree trunks and underbrush. To my right, the same thing.

 _No panicking,_ I scold myself, confusion and fear mixing in me, _Think._

Where am I?

I--I have no clue. I was in a city? Yes, last I remember, I was in a city. There were skyscrapers blocking my view of...my view of something, I remember that.

But now there’s trees around me, an entire forest. 

Kidnapping is considered and dismissed. Why bother taking someone just to dump their body in a forest? Nothing hurts drastically to indicate any type of abuse. Perhaps I got drunk and wandered my way into the woods? More likely, but considering I last remember a city, I’m disinclined to think that’s what happened. Maybe I was drugged somehow? Also possible, but something tells me that’s not what happened.

I absently brushing off the dead leaves sticking to me--

What the fresh fuck am I wearing? 

An off-white peasant blouse tucked into loose brown pants and the pants tucked into darker brown boots with a blue sash is tied around my waist. The clothes are all very comfortable, but they don’t feel familiar at all. In fact, there’s a sense of wrongness to them that I can’t pin down. 

No, it’s not the clothes, I realize, it’s the size. I hold my hands up in front of my face, staring in fascination at the tiny hands before my eyes. I flex my fingers and the tiny ones before my face curl too. I pat my body down slowly, feeling straight planes where there should be soft curves, skin and bone where there should be muscle and fat. It doesn’t take long for my self exploration to finish and the result stalls my brain out.

It feels like--seems like--I have the body of a ten year old.

Which can’t be right, obviously, since I remember being an adult. I remember the height, the curves, and everything else. So this, this doesn’t make sense. Not at all.

“What?” I ask aloud.

Nothing answers me.

Alone in the woods, in the body of a child, with no memory of how I got there, no memory at all--

Oh.

I can’t-- I can’t remember anything.

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that would help, but no matter how far back I dig into my mind, I can’t drudge up any personal memories. Other memories, yes, like what it’s like to swim and hours spent investigating things online, but there’s nothing to tell me of the family I must have, of the personal experience I must have gone through.

I can’t remember my own name.

That’s--

That should be heartbreaking.

Why is it that I feel so free instead?

I sigh, opening my eyes to the new place I’m in and I can’t muster up any regret for the life and existence I know I must have lost. There’s nothing for it now. All I can do is survive where I am, build something new for myself.

I remember hearing-- ah, there. The sound of rushing water, like the babbling brook option on a sleep sound machine. I start off to the right, wishing desperately for a compass so I could know which cardinal direction I was headed in. Given that the sun was blocked out by the tree canopy, I couldn’t use that to orient myself. I needed to find a bigger break in the trees so I could start heading north.

Annoying.

Whatever, there’d be a break in the trees soon enough and I could figure it out from there. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boring shit, I guess

I watched a video about a guy who built a whole house out of baked bricks in the middle of the woods. I wouldn’t say I saw the video hundreds of times, per se, but a damn close enough number that I had a good idea of what I wanted to do for my house. I debated building something up in the trees before realizing that I don’t have any tools available to me, just my body and the clothes on my back. Also, you know, I had to keep in mind the restraints of having the body of a ten year old child.

So mud house it is.

I didn’t want to be too far from the stream, given that I’d need an available source of water, but neither did I want to be too close. I didn’t know the kind of fauna in these woods and while I doubted that there were tigers or anything like that, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious. Luckily for me, there was a decent sized clearing about 100 yards away from the stream. So first off, I needed an axe. Which meant I went out to find a long, vaguely triangle shaped stone. That done, I hacked at a couple trees to make sure it could actually cut into wood. Finding and adequate sized piece of wood for the handle, I carefully made nicks in the same spot over and over again using another thick piece of wood as a hammer and the rock as the pick for it until the rock slotted in. Just to be certain, I foraged up some vines to tie the rock in more securely. 

Then I set to chopping.

I did that for most of the day, taking breaks often to rest my tiny and weak new body. The good thing about being a kid again though was that I bounced back super quick. I hauled back my wood to the place where I had outlined the house. I needed four shorter branches for the four corners of the house, and two taller ones to support the roof. After setting those up and tying joints together with more vines, my stomach reminded me I needed food. Now, I wasn’t precisely sure how to weave a basket, but it wasn’t rocket science. It was just the vines back and forth between slightly sturdier sticks. There were some gaps, but not enough for a prawn to crawl out of so that’s a win. I nearly left before remembering I had to weave a funnel to stick in, so that took up time. 

Trekking my way back to the stream, I set it down in a place with still water, where I could see prawns moving about. I had to pause to take off my boots and my socks, and then I took off my sash as well. Wading into the water, I anchored my trap down with a rock and got out after another slightly sandy drink from the water. I spent a little while longer in the water to soak my aching hands in the cool water, soothing the heat growing there from abusing non-calloused hands with such hard labor. It’d hurt to develop the callouses, but I knew it was necessary.

“Good place to bathe,” I muttered, climbing back onto the shore and using my sash to dry myself before slipping my socks and shoes back on. I went back to camp quickly. I had shit to do.

I spent the next few days perfecting my camp. 

The nights were warm enough that I wasn't terrified of hypothermia, but the seasons would change before I was ready, I knew it. I had built a bed out of plucked leaves, but that wasn’t a lot of cushioning. I also realized rather quickly that I had to build a kiln. It was an all mud cylinder, with a bulky smoke filter, but it worked, so I couldn’t see much room to complain. I made a quick couple of bowls, cups, pots, and lids before working on the tile. I needed a tile roof, which was arduous, but it was the only way I knew how to make a roof since I was following that guy from the video. 

In between waiting for the tiles to bake, I made more prawn traps and made my first bow. For a while I wondered about fletching before accidentally stumbling upon a pheasant and her eggs. That was a lucky break. I boiled the eggs instantly, since they were easy to store in a pot and bury to keep it cool and prevent animals from getting in. During that, I plucked the pheasant and stored the feathers in a basket to use later. I had to hunt for a sharper rock to gut the bird, which was messy business and I cooked that to eat for dinner.

I was full for the first time in days.

  
  


So fletching was hard.

I had to use tree sap to get the feathers to stick to my shafts, which meant having to handle hot sap to use the sticky substance. Practice does make perfect and I was able to get a whole bunch of arrows done within a day. I wasn’t able to make arrowheads, but simply sharpening the tip of the shaft with a rock and then burning it to harden it worked well enough. The bowstring was made out of plant fibers peeled from young saplings, twisted over and over to give it tension. The bow wasn’t easy to draw, but I made do. I tended to practice during midday, when the sun was getting a bit too hot to be anywhere near the kiln. I remembered watching a video about how the draw-from-a-quiver method was actually super inefficient and that holding the arrows in your draw hand was actually much more efficient and deadly. So that’s what I practiced, over and over again.

I went out during the mornings to hunt, bringing back pheasants and rabbits the most often; as for the average of my catch, I'd say I brought by one a day, although it was mostly luck. (The animals here weren't used to being hunted, it seemed.) I would clean my kill and chop them up into pieces small enough to shove into a pot and then would stick that into the glowing embers of the kiln and let them cook until done. As soon as that was done, I fired up the kiln and kept baking tiles and bricks alike. 

It was . . . really slow going.

  
  


I wouldn’t say I was lonely, per se, but the silence was getting to me.

I didn’t realize how attached I was to sound, until I was deprived of it. Music was only a click away when I was back in the city and I missed it. So I started singing to myself and reciting poems and such. Just to hear something.

_About suffering they were never wrong,_

_The old Masters: how well they understood_

_Its human position: how it takes place_

_While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;_

_How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting_

_For the miraculous birth, there always must be_

_Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating_

_On a pond at the edge of the wood:_

_They never forgot_

_That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course_

_Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot_

_Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse_

_Scratches its innocent behind on a tree._

I pause, wipe the sweat from my forehead and quirk an eyebrow at the curious crow that hopped forward to see what I was doing with the mud in my hands. I continue to recite to him.

_In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away_

_Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may_

_Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,_

_But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone_

_As it had to on the white legs disappearing in the green_

_Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen_

_Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,_

_Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on._

The crow caws at me, and I’d like to think it’s a commendation on my ability to recite Auden’s poem. I wash the mud from my hands, wishing I could spare some food for him, but knowing it was impossible. I’ve always wanted my own murder. He hops after me, crowing again.

“Want some more, do you?” I ask, snickering, “How about a song this time?”

_Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high_

_There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby_

_Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue_

_And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true_

_Someday I’ll wish upon a star_

_And wake up where the clouds are far behind me_

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops_

_Away above the chimney tops_

_There’s where you’ll find me_

_Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly_

_Birds fly over the rainbow_

_Why the oh why can’t I?_ ”

  
  


A diet of some meat a day and copious amounts of unfiltered water was going to kill me sooner rather than later. I needed to start cultivating vegetables. So I kept an eye out for bunches of white flowers, hoping to see Queen Anne’s lace which would result in wild carrots. It took a few days of wandering, but I found them.

Cultivating was difficult, but eventually, I had my own plot of land growing, and I put a fence up around it. With the new vegetables, I was having more or less rounded out meals, with the decent amount of meat I was bringing in with the prawns and whatever I had managed to shoot down for the day. I ended up knowing the land around my camp very well because I had to keep hunting in random areas so my prey wouldn’t get accustomed to me in just one place.

Despite my youth, despite my inexperience, I was making a life for myself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone requested links so here you go i guess  
> (lmao citing my sources like this is a fucking essay)
> 
> building a house: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P73REgj-3UE  
> how to fletch arrows: i just.....know that.....don't ask  
> Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden: https://www.poetrybyheart.org.uk/poems/musee-des-beaux-arts/  
> somewhere over the rainbow: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3CYE3eUDof8


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More boring shit. Some action. Be gay, do crimes.

Time passed, a month, I believe, though it was hard to tell.

During that time I had made an underground storage room, sealing it off as tight as I could against animals and contamination alike. I dug a rectangular hole, lined it with two layers of bricks, and the only entrance was a tunnel that lead to my house. I also started up a new farm section for the wild sweet potatoes I started cultivating. In one stroke of immense luck, I also found a rosemary plant that I was now growing as well.

However, the most important thing I had stumbled upon in all my time is soapberries.

I wasn’t versed well in how to make soap at all, but I knew that soapberries were the base ingredient. I was lucky enough to stumble upon a bush of them near the stream, foaming up the water. 

I took that plant as well.

Now I could wash not only my body but my clothes as well. My once pristine clothes got dirtier and rattier with each passing day, but now I had the chance to save them. The beautiful blue sash served more often as a towel than a clothing item. But my boots were real troopers. No matter what I put them through, they got through for me.

I learned pretty early on that they didn’t get dirty, no matter how many handfuls of mud I worked with to make bricks, which was damn handy. In fact, my clothes in general seemed to be made of sterner stuff, even though they feel like pure cotton. Even with my amnesia, I knew without a doubt that my ensemble was the biggest clue to my past identity that I had, if I ever decided I wanted to find out.

But given I had no desire to leave my little section of the forest, it was irrelevant.

  
  


And then I saw humans.

I had been wandering back to my campsite, distracted by itchy scalp as my hair was growing out from it’s buzz. I had woken with it all shorn off, but now that it was growing back, it was driving me mad. So, like a cartoonish moron, I nearly walked directly into their line of sight before nearly tripping over my own feet to dodge back. I couldn’t say then why I didn’t want to be seen by them, I just moved on instinct.

Crouching around a tree, I observed them.

They seemed to be dressed in ratty clothes like me, only slightly better taken care of, with literal, actual armor pieces on. And there, on the man on the far right’s hip was a sword. Another man had a much nicer bow and arrow set than my DIY-ed version and yet another man had an axe. I saw more than one flash of a knife hilt.

And I wanted them.

I really, really wanted them.

 _Stealing is wrong_ , I scold myself, even as I crept along beside them. But I had to replace my shitty Stone Age tools all the time and I was tired of it. Good equipment would be a life saver. God, just metal in general could change my life. Although I bet I could forge my own stuff if I could just find the raw ore-- beside the point. I wanted their shit.

Then they started speaking.

I had only heard my own voice for so long, reciting poems and singing songs into the woods that it was a shock to hear anyone else. 

And then I realized I had no idea what they were saying.

They spoke some language that sounded vaguely like German and French had a kinky one night stand and whatever was falling out of their mouths right now was the result of it. It was utterly unintelligible to me. I had never given much thought on where I was, just a ubiquitous ‘in the forest’ but whatever these guys were speaking, it wasn’t English. Where the fuck was I then? And then--

“Rivendell,” the man with the axe says and I nearly trip over my own feet.

Oh god, don’t tell me these guys were just insanely intense Lord of the Rings cosplayers. Were they speaking Elvish or something? And they had come this deep into the woods? Talk about dedication. I guess they were cosplaying Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli, what with their weapons, but their costumes didn’t look anything like the movie versions. Maybe they were hardcore book enthusiasts?

I follow them for about an hour. They don’t notice me, given that I’ve been evading the high sensitive ears of rabbits everyday for weeks and these guys are probably just normal workers out for a weekend.

Well, I think that until the man with the bow whips around and shoots at me.

It flies far over my head, given how close I am to the ground and the fact the guy was obviously aiming at chest-level for an adult. Still, I slip back behind a tree with barely a whisper of sound. Both of the other men shout at faux-Legolas and he tries to defend himself in strained, half paranoid tones. I don’t speak their language, but I know what they’re saying, easily.

_Faux-Aragorn: What are you shoot at, dumbass?_

_Faux-Legolas: I thought something was following us!_

_Faux-Aragorn: Don’t be stupid, don’t you think we would have noticed by now?_

_Faux-Gimli: Do you want to alert bears where we are! Idiot!_

The shouting subsides, silence falling thick, and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise. I sink to the ground, belly down and moving slowly to the closest cover I can see. I slide under the protection of a bush just before the three leap out to where I was just hiding.

 _Nice going me_ , I think as the three of them grumble and faux-Aragorn whacks faux-Legolas across the back of the head. I squint at them. Upon closer look, they don’t look like cosplayers at all. They’re simply grimy, dirty travellers. But Jesus, their clothes. 

_Hey guys the Dark Ages called, they’d like their clothes back._

They continue on their way and after a few minutes, I get up and follow. 

I still want metal after all.

  
  


They settle down to sleep just as the sun begins to set, though they fret an awful lot about where to bed down. Eventually, they have no choice but to sleep in the small clearing they found. They elect a watch by literally drawing sticks and I settle in to wait.

My target is faux-Legolas, who has the middle watch. That’s undoubtedly the hardest one and he’s been jumpy and stressed the entire day. He’s likely exhausted and if I had any money, I’d bet it on him falling asleep.

And I was right.

Now, I wasn’t enough of an idiot to think I could steal all three main weapons from them, but goddammit, I was determined to claim at least one knife. Maybe faux-Legolas’ bow too. It looked so nice.

_Focus, knife only!_

Soon faux-Gimli’s watch was over and he woke faux-Legolas, who grumpily took his place. And just like I predicted, it was only a few minutes before he was nodding off. I sent sleepy vibes over to him, hoping it would do something. I mean, it didn’t, since the guy was doomed to nod off anyways, but it made me feel better. As his head finally relaxed fully against the tree, I gave him a minute before creeping into their camp. There was no campfire to worry about, which made my job easier. With silent steps, I crept over to the one sleeping the longest: faux-Aragorn. He was wrapped up tight in his cloak, but I could see the gleam of a boot knife which I slipped from him easily. No sheath, but I’d make do.

I had just turned around when I pulled up short.

I couldn’t explain why, but I turned around, my gaze laser focused on faux-Gimli’s belt. He was less tightly wrapped than faux-Aragorn, but I knew without a doubt that he had something I needed. Sure enough, I crept closer and saw the elegant curved handle of a blade sheathed and fastened to his belt. It’s grip looked silver in the moonlight, curved perfectly for a grip. Boot knife in hand, I leaned over and began to saw carefully away at the loop that held the sheath to his belt.

He sniffled and I froze, waiting as he shifted in his sleep. My gaze darted over to faux-Legolas, still asleep. I sawed a little bit faster, sacrificing some stealth for a little more speed. 

The loop snapped; faux-Legolas woke.

He shouted something, loud and angry, but I didn’t bother trying to figure out which insult he hurled at me. I grabbed the sheath and booked it, ducking behind the first tree and then bobbing and weaving my way through the dark forest. I knew this place better than they did, so my chances of escape were high unless-

THUNK

An arrow embedded into the trunk right by my ear and my efforts to escape redoubled. They had done away with shouting pointlessly and were giving chase. I led them through the woods, over the stream, to the rabbit hunting thicket, where I tried and failed to lose them. My still-tiny body won’t be able to keep up this pace so I need a distraction and to find somewhere to hide. 

I remember an animal den that a badger recently took and that’s a good enough distraction. I swing around the old birch grove, edging closer to the mountains and skidding to the left where the trees became dense. In the roots of one of the great oaks, the hollow that serves as the badger’s den is utterly invisible unless you knew it was here. I duck close, grabbing a handful of dirt and rocks and throwing it in. I hear a hiss and a shuffle of movement, but I’m already shooting off into the darkness as the pounding footsteps of the men come closer. 

I don’t dare look behind but I hear the scream of surprise and pain as my pursuers meet a pissed off badger mama. I dash off even farther, coming upon the stream and leaping over it again, before scrambling up a tree and hiding myself in the foliage.

Just to be certain, I don’t move for the rest of the night.

As dawn breaks, I take a look at my new prizes. 

The boot knife in my right hand is well balanced and I would say it looks well made, but I’m not sure what a well made knife looks like, actually. For now I cautiously tuck it into my sash, which for once I’m actually wearing. Now for the other knife.

The sheath is black, and looks incongruous to the silvery sheen of the blade. When I pull it out, I gasp. I can’t help it. Even though it’s a knife, it’s beautiful. The handle isn’t silver, like I first thought, but a pale wood, carved with images of vines. The blade, however, looks like it would put high quality stainless steel chef knives to shame with the way it gleams. I give a test slash and it seems to part the air itself.

Yeah, totally worth the almost death to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: the individuals featured in this chase scene are not actually Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, but rather three normal humans that our intrepid heroine is mocking for...well...wearing clothes and having an aura of a person living in a fantasy/historical movie. which is so hypocritical of her even though she doesn't know it yet lol


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More boring shit. But this time with a sheep.

My hair is white. 

That’s only notable because it wasn’t, before. Well, I'm pretty sure it wasn't. Maybe it was? The only reason I notice is because it’s been long enough in these woods that my hair has finally grown out from the army shave it was in when I first arrived here and it’s long enough that I can see it’s white. Like, pure snow white. I knew stress could cause grey hairs, but this was a bit excessive, in my humble opinion.

“What do you think, Corvo?” I ask, showing the crow some of the strands that washed out during my daily bath. Against the copper tan of my skin, the white strands gleam with the contrast of the darker shade. He caws and taps his beak to my hand. I hold my fingers out more and he picks up the six inch strands to bring to his nest. Now, I wasn’t sure, but I think he got together with Morrigan, aka the other head of the murder I had kinda-sorta tamed. Stepping out of the water, I pat my body dry with my sash, before slipping my boots on again. I tie the sash loosely around my body like a dress with two corners crossing over my chest and tying behind my neck.

That’s when I heard it.

A bleat.

I jerk up immediately, setting off into the woods, following the sound. Another bleat, closer, and it took only a few minutes of searching to stumble upon a sheep, stuck in brambles that had caught on his full coat of fleece.

“God bless,” I breathe out. That solves my issue for what to do for new clothes. I kneel down, approaching the beast carefully, and speaking in low soothing tones to it. “There you are, sweetie, now how’d you get stuck there? Let me help you out, okay?” The sheep jerks and bleats again, but after several minutes of coaxing it, I was able to free it from the brambles, keeping a solid hand in the fleece around its neck.

As soon as it was free, I expected it to bolt, but it didn’t. Instead it followed me in a rather docile manner to my homestead. I snagged one of the bowstrings I had premade from plant fiber, repurposing it into a lead and staked into the ground. I’d have to bring it out to graze soon, but for now, I set about patting it’s wounds down with water and my shirt.

“I’ll name you Jason,” I told him. “After the hero of the Argonauts who sought after the golden fleece.” I paused, patting him down more before checking between its legs, seeing teats with an absurd amount of glee. “Oh? Not a Jason after all. Well, you can stick with the name. Fuck gender norms anyways.”

This is a female sheep, which means there’s a chance of milk. Excited, I grab a pot, cleaning it out with a sweep of a hand, before putting it underneath Jason, cautiously grabbing a teat before attempting to milk. 

And praise god hallelujah, she milks!

I’m so relieved that I nearly start crying as I continue to milk her. I had noticed that I had been progressively losing mass. I mean, that was unavoidable, living as I was, but it was growing concern with the idea of the coming winter. I had estimated I had woken up in the woods in mid spring and it was now near the peak of summer. With Jason’s arrival, my chances of survival shot up by a significant amount. Not only from the nutrients I’d get from milk, but the wool would also be a literal lifesaver. I had enough time to shave her and hopefully get several skeins of yarn from her to make into blankets and more clothes before winter hit.

“Well, I can think about that later,” I said, “Let’s get you some food, little lady.”

  
  


I built a well and water filter during that last month of summer. 

The necessity for something more accessible than the stream was undeniable. I dug and dug and dug for the well, until I hit the water table belowground. That was easy to come across because of the proximity of the stream and it turned the dirt to mud nearly instantly. I lined it with my stock pile of baked bricks to create the actual well and made a lever to help me draw buckets of water using the fire clay pots I had around. Right next to it was the filter, also made of bricks. About five feet high, it had two staggered levels. On the top, I filled first with charcoal, then with medium grain river rocks, and then the fine river sand on top of that. To anchor it all down, I stacked larger river rocks on top of it. Then I spent about an hour filtering water until the water ran dirty to clean. A pain in the ass, for sure, but now I wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the river when I wanted a drink. And this was safer. Honestly, it was a miracle I hadn’t caught something bad and died from drinking unfiltered water.

I fired much bigger clay pots and spent an entire day filtering water and filling the pots with them, sealing them off with painstakingly collected beeswax. I had found a hive and raided it once for honey and the wax using smoke to calm them, but it was so difficult that I wasn’t sure it was worth the effort. I never imagined how hard it was to melt down honeycomb until I was forced to use a clay pot instead of a metal one. It had taken a while of filtering through a shorn off part of my sash, but I had enough to pinch around the sides of a pot and a lid to seal it off. That would be emergency water, in the event some snowstorm sealed Jason and I in.

Speaking of, Jason spent most nights inside the hut with me, since I was paranoid of the wolves I had heard every so often. She smelled a bit, but not so bad that sticking a few sprigs of lavender around the place wouldn’t fix up. Plus she was warm. I didn’t realize how much I missed sleeping with something warm. The layer of leaves I kept to layer and cushion on the ground was nice, but it was hardly warm. I’d need to build a bedframe soon, to keep myself off the ground when winter hit.

“Yet another project,” I tell Morrigan morosely. “It never ends.”

And yet I’m smiling.

  
  


I know how badly I’m taxing my child’s body. 

I know I need more rest, more nutrients, more care, but every day to survive is such a struggle that I have to force myself through the motions despite how it exhausts me. There’s simply no other choice but to continue onward. 

Sometimes, at night, in the few moments before I fall asleep, I wonder how much longer I can keep this pace up before the exhaustion overtaxes my young system and kills me.

But it doesn’t do to dwell on things like that. It doesn’t help anything and only makes me sad and I can’t stand that. 

I’m alive, and that’s enough.

  
  


Shearing Jason was easy with my silver knife. 

I feared what it may have been like if I only had stones to work with. I shuddered before turning back to washing the fibers of her wool in the basket I had woven just for this purpose. Doing this in the river was risky, since I was greedy over every strand of fiber, but it was unavoidable. I had made an attempt at making hides out of the rabbits I had caught, with mixed results. Out of all the survival information I could recall, making animal hides was not one of them. I was sure I could use smoke to preserve it but I was still trying to figure out how to do it without the hides catching fire.

Making yarn wasn’t in my direct breadth of knowledge, per se, but it only took common sense to figure it out. It was spun fiber, but I couldn’t fuck up at all, given how little yarn this would give me.

“Dammit Jason,” I tell her, twisting the cleaned and carded fibers with my fingers. “This is all your fault.”

She bleats at me.

“Fair point.”

But I make several skeins of yarn, carve myself a set of knitting needles and one large stick for a blanket, and set to work.

  
  


Two weeks and three blankets later, I finally start on my bed frame. 

The shape is universal, so it only takes some clever vine weaving to make a secure frame and a netting to actually lay in. Of course, I make it large enough for Jason and I to share, because we’ll need that body heat come winter. Already, autumn brings the threat of cold and I swear up a storm when I wake one morning to see frost on the top of the well water. 

That day I bust out a section of my wall and make a chimney. 

  
  


I built an entirely new house for wood too.

Once the snows come, it’ll be nearly impossible to dry wood, so I stock up enough that the room is near overflowing. It has to last me the entire season of winter, so I make sure the place is as airtight as possible. I apply an extra layer of mud on the tile rooftops, thin enough to not make it cave in, but enough to seal whatever cracks between the tiles so that neither snow nor wind could seep in. I added another brace to the inside of both houses, a central pole holding up more of the weight, since the snow would also weigh it down.

  
  


Over the course of the next month, I hunt like crazy.

I’ve figured out how to make jerky by boiling it and drying it out which I store instantly in a sealed container, praying that it’ll last. And then I force myself to figure out smoking. I end up using a large pot, putting my meat in and cutting a hole in the bottom before stacking it on top of my chimney to smoke it that way. It looks stupid, but it works, so it really isn’t stupid. 

(I seal all of that meat away too.) 

At the very last minute, I smoke the vegetables with seeds already picked and stored before summer ended. There’s no way that ground vegetables will survive the frost. Seeds for rosemary, lavender, and soapberry bush have also been saved. I also dry out as many sprigs of herbs as I can. 

And with that I face the winter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local idiot finds out she's in Arda, but doesn't find out she's an elf. What an clown.

And so seasons came and went.

I built up my homestead until it was a suitable living place, an approximation of civilization. With Jason and Corvo and Morrigan as company, I rarely felt lonely. They would make noises at me and I would sing and recite poems to them. Those moments felt important, though I couldn’t say why.

I learned how to make hides, made myself new clothes with leather and cured sinew as thread, knitted and knitted to make blankets and sweaters, ugly though they looked. Learned to bone carve since I needed hair pins to keep my hair up in a bun and out of my face. It was still a pure white (when it wasn’t dirty, at least) and grew abnormally fast. I was tempted to cut it hundreds of time, but it acted as a natural scarf during winter, so I pinned it up during the summer and dealt with it.

  
  


It was during the spring of my second year when I noticed the changes in my body.

My eyesight was sharper, my hearing keener, and my movement so quick and quiet I could catch a rabbit with my bare hands. My body that had steadily lost fat and mass--and it didn’t have much to start with--began to turn lean with whipcord muscle. I grew strong and fast and dexterous. My ability to draw and shoot skyrocketed and the times I practiced with my knife--miming fighting off attackers because I wasn’t naive or stupid, in thinking my one interaction with the outside world would end there--the blade turned into a flash of silver with the speed I slashed with it.

It should be impossible and yet that’s exactly what happened. 

“Then again Corvo,” I tell the other crow. “Waking up in the middle of the forest with no memory and the body of a child should also be impossible. And then surviving on my own for another two years should also be impossible. So really, what’s another impossible thing?”

Corvo let out a warble, obviously agreeing with me.

It’s while bathing, singing part of Hozier’s discography, that I realize what other changes my body has had.

Or rather, what changes it hasn’t gone through. 

It’s been years since I first woke up as a ten year old, and my body hasn’t undergone any changes. I know that the malnutrition from my first years have likely affected my growth, but reasonably speaking I should be on the cusp of puberty right now. Something should be happening. If not height, then I should be gaining weight and curves. 

But my body is the same as it was when I woke, except for the callouses I had purposefully built up and the scars I had accidentally acquired.

It bothers me, the lack of change, probably much more than it should given how I know the cause. But it’s still depressing to be faced with the evidence of it.

I quickly abandon my bath and dry myself, dressing to hide my body from my own gaze.

It’s sad, and a bit unnerving, but there’s no point in spending time thinking on it when there’s nothing I can do except redouble my efforts to acquire more food.

And so that’s exactly what I do.

At the third year mark, I had multiple crops going, including sweet potato, carrots, beets, lettuce and godblessed garlic. I set up fences around the crops, leaving one gap open with a trap setup to catch thieving animals. After catching several rabbits, I started my own rabbit farm, generating meat and an endless supply of hide. The wild pheasants were harder, but eventually I got those too. Jason has long since run out of milk, but was still producing enough wool for me to take advantage of. 

My previous life of barely scraping by was turning around. No longer did I go to sleep hungry and wake up with my stomach attempting to eat my spine. If I was hungry, I ate. When I was thirsty, I drank. When I was tired, I slept. When I worked it was for maintenance only and I could turn my attention to trying to improve what I already had in place. 

My homestead was the definition of self sustaining and I had finally stabilized my life.

  
  


And then, in the autumn of my fourth year, I see elves for the first time.

  
  


Not going to lie, I had kind of forgotten those human men way back when. Had completely set aside their Rivendell name drop as a one off. I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t have. Honestly, though, I never saw it coming. The fact I’m out at night in the first place is ridiculous. I know this forest area from the place it starts to the place it ends, had found several roads that travel through it, animal and human alike, but I preferred staying off of them. They simply felt weird to me, after so long traversing the wilderness as naturally as possible. 

But the main road through the forest is a great place to stargaze, and I’ve been obsessed with it. It was so clear and there was almost no pollution, how could I not be fascinated when I recalled a world where stars were so rare? So I would go out sometimes, to watch with my newly fantastic eyesight the way the stars glittered like diamonds against a velvet sky.

The second I heard movement, I was off the road in a flash, diving far into the brush before I processed the unusual steadiness of the sound. 

I couldn’t help but creep forward and watch a procession of figures upon horses, clad in armor and carrying weapons. It was a small party, barely 20 people, but it was fascinating to watch. They were beautiful, every one of them. They all had impossibly long hair, drawn out of their faces and woven into intricate styles. They seemed to shimmer, as if they were doused in starlight. Over the air was a faint song, one of the riders singing something foreign and beautiful, the notes catching in the air and hanging, as if the world itself wanted the song to exist forever.

They were beautiful.

They were unnerving.

And they all had pointed ears.

_ Oh god they’re elves _ .

Fucking ELVES.

It’s impossible to believe and my brain spiraled out into panic. 

Elves? Actually? Literally? 

And if those people over there are elves, then that means that there’s probably more elves out there. And that means that Rivendell is probably real and not some crazy cosplayer’s attempt at role play. And oh my god if Rivendell exists that means I’m in Middle Earth, aka a fucking fantasy world.

_ Oh god this can’t be happening _ . 

Because if I’m on Middle Earth and Middle Earth exists and elves exist that means bullshit like orcs and wargs and the fucking One Ring exist too. Which means I’m literally living in a story right now.

_ Oh god, no. No no no no no. NO. _

And iterations there of.

By the time I snap back into my senses, the party of elves is long gone and I stagger back to my house to collapse in bed, where I refuse to move for the next 24 hours.

  
  


Okay so. Not my best moment, for sure.

But after emotionally processing that, I’ve decided not to care.

I mean, part of me thinks I should pack up and head right to Rivendell right now. I feel the urge to try and warn them of the shitshow that’s coming, but logic saves me right before I start throwing shit together. The reality is that I have no idea what age it is. I don’t know if the Ring is still a threat or if this is post-Aragorn-becoming-King. Also, would they even listen to a miserable little gremlin like me? Likely not. And what even would I say? “Hello, I have no memory, but I’m super certain that this world is a story that I don’t remember reading and I know the future.”

Yes, because that would go over so well.

Do I skip out? Do I stay? Am I really obligated to help these people?

I live in this world now, but it’s not really my world. I knew that Frodo and the Fellowship would save it without my help. All’s well that ends well and stuff. Should I risk interfering, throwing the timeline off, when it would turn out alright in the end?

No.

Absolutely no.

And that was not cowardice speaking, that was just plain logic. This was an entire world in balance. I couldn’t just push my way into it. So I’d simply stay out of the way, in my small clearing here, and continue living my peaceful homesteading life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something finally happens, holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here after five chapters of that nonsense, then good for you! You're braver than any US marine

In the spring of my fifth year, I’m confronted with a test of my resolution not to get involved.

I was passing by a clearing in the southwest section of the forest, searching for the wild strawberries I saw Corvo bring Morrigan yesterday, when I had come across the body. The man--elf, actually, given his pointed ears and long dark hair braided back from his face--is face down, and bleeding pretty heavily. He’s pale as hell and not just from the blood loss. Seriously, his skin looks like marble next to my coppery tan, the result of many hours spent in the sun. His nice armor is dented and battered and bloody. The rather large sword is held in lax fingers. His breathing is pretty off too. He’s completely out of it and will probably die if I don’t help him. 

I don’t want to get involved with the world at large, but that’s not a good reason to ignore someone in need, I know that much. 

With a sigh, I grab a stick, standing out of range of the sweep of the sword before poking the man in the cheek. And again. And again. And over and over until he cracks open one blue-grey eye to regard me with exhaustion that quickly morphs into surprise when he sees me. He tries to get up, but then his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out.

Idiot. Still, acknowledgement is permission enough.

Ten year olds aren’t very strong, but they’re limber and I flip him after some struggling. The armor goes off first, set in a pile with his sword, and then I peel his bloody clothes off. What a mess. He’s covered in various cuts and scratches, but the wounds that’s most concerning is a large cut in his side: located right underneath his ribs and level with his belly button, seven inches long and gushing blood. A sniff tells me it’s just blood, no scent of shit to indicate an organ has been punctured. 

A mess, but it could be worse.

I take off my hand-knit sweater and cushion his head with it before scampering down to the stream. I put his bloody clothes in, anchoring them down securely with heavy rocks so they can rinse without washing away. 

It’s quite a detour but I go back to my house to grab a pot of water that I had recently filled and an empty pot that I fill with extra clothes to be used as bandages, a cup, and dried meat and vegetables for him to eat. I take the two blankets off my bed and sling them around my neck to carry to him as well. I tie the two pots to the two ends of a pole that I then heft over my shoulders, resting on the cushion of blankets around my neck and I heading back to the injured soldier. 

He’s still alive. Hoorah.

I set my load down, laying out a blanket and rolling him onto it and off the cool ground. He groans a bit as that happens, waking up from the sheer pain lancing through him. I open the pot of water and dip the cup in to fill. I lever his head up and he gazes at me with something like confusion and fascination and croaks out a word I don’t understand. 

I pour water into his mouth and he drinks like he’s been parched forever. He speaks again, but it’s just as unintelligible and I ignore him as I dip one of the scarves I made into the pot of water to soak it, using it to blot at and clean his wounds. I don’t know if this is exactly the height of cleanliness but if he dies, he dies. I can say I tried.

Idiot keeps talking, gasping to get words out, until I glare at him and shush him.

He ignores that, which is fair, given how I’m ignoring him too.

The cuts he has are mainly dried by now, but there’s a large wound in his side that needs stitches, badly. As if, buster. I don’t dare use my own clumsy sewing needle and shitty sinew thread to sew up an actual person. He’ll get tree sap and be happy about it. I take up my silver knife and head to the closest tree, stabbing it multiple times to get sap to begin to spill. As I wait for sap to accumulate, I wipe off my blade and then set to carefully cutting strips off of his very nicely woven cloak, barely an inch long by half an inch wide. 

With my Medieval-era approximation of butterfly bandages, I take the cloth and head to the tree to dab the two ends into the sap, before returning to tape them over his wound. I take off his belt, carefully patting the extra wool I had over his big wound and using his belt and a bracer, I think, to keep it in place over his injury. For the small wounds, I just wipe them free of dirt with the still-soaked scarf.

I water him again and chew up some of the hard dried meat and feed it to him, but it’s a struggle. I think he tries to speak during that because it is, admittedly, a little gross but he’s much too weak to protest. And he swallows the pre-chewed food so point to me. 

He passes out, having been fed and watered, and I dig a small hole, making a teepee shape with sticks and stack a whole bunch of them near him. It takes a bit of finagling, but thanks to years of practice, I manage to build a small fire for him. 

Back to the stream, where I fetch his clean-ish-but-definitely-stained-forever clothes, then back again, to hang them up to dry. I fetch several basketfuls of leaves, shoving them into a bed of sorts underneath him. It takes a while. By the time I’m satisfied, it’s nearly night. I throw the other blanket over him so he’s warm during the night, but I don’t dare stay.

I’ve helped him as much as I can. He has a fire to keep warm, and both of my fucking blankets, and I patched him up, which is really going above and beyond in my humble opinion. He has the pot of water that should last him, and a good amount of dried food for him to eat when he wakes. I’ve been more than generous. If he lives or dies is no longer my concern.

I get back to my homestead, checking in on my farm and animals before turning in with Jason. As we curl up on the bed, I force the soldier from my mind. I did what I could. The rest is up to him.

  
  


After thirty minutes, I get up, pulling on my clothes again and strapping my knife to my hip. I grab my bow and quiver and a cloak-esque thing that I normally only took out in winter. I shoved some dried meat and fruit into my sash and set out to the clearing again, prepared to spend the night watching over this idiot of an elf soldier.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t.

But dammit I didn’t want anyone dying on my watch.

When I reach the clearing, the man is sleeping if somewhat fitfully. I settle a bit away, my bow to the side, with my arrows in the ground next to me so that I can grab them quickly. 

And so I watch through the night.

  
  


He wakes near dawn, crying out something with desperation.

I watch as his hand comes up to his side, waiting for his panic to ease, before I whistle at him. His head whips to me, surprise plain on his face at the sight of me, a child, watching him from several feet away. He repeats the word he used when he first saw me, so I ignore it just the same. 

I stand slowly, watching the way he tenses. I make my way to the pot of water, filling a cup and handing it over to him. He reaches for it, his hand trembling, and I huff a sigh. He won’t be able to grab it without spilling, so I move in closer, helping tip his head up to help him sip. He drinks and when I pull the cup away he murmurs something I can only assume is a thank you.

Then his stomach practically roars and I see him blush with embarrassment, which is just ridiculous. Obviously getting nearly gutted and doing all that healing is going to make you hungry. He says something, which is also dumb because he must be able to tell by now I’m not responding to words. It seems like sign language is the only option we have to communicate.

I tap my lips three times with the tips of my fingers, some half formed memories of sign language reminding me of what ‘food’ is. I point at him, sign ‘food’ again, and grab for the other pot, pulling out a dried carrot. I tap my lips. 

Luckily, he seems to get with the program, tapping his lips the same way. I smile at him, handing over the carrot and a few more pieces of dried food.

I should probably get easier for him to eat than dried stuff. I have a precut Swedish log stove back at my homestead, and I can put together a pot of stew real quick. That decided, I stand. He reaches out towards me and I skitter out of the way. I frown, sign ‘stop’ at him. He tries to get up and I push him down, signing ‘stop’ again.

I leave the clearing, ignoring his call after me.

I retrieve the log first, bringing it from home to the clearing and the soldier--or the fucking idiot--is trying to get up when I come back. I drop the log, rushing over to push the moron down before he opens up his wound. He looks dramatically relieved to see me, and I realize in embarrassment he must have been getting up to try and check on me. 

I know I don’t look too reliable as a ten year old, but damn, you’d think he’d give his savior the benefit of the doubt. 

I make him lie down again, giving him another cup of water to sip as I start a fire in the stove log. Now I need to go back and gather the ingredients for the stew. I look at the soldier, point at him, and sign ‘stop’ again with harsh movements. I point again just to be sure to impress the seriousness of him laying the fuck down, before I head back to my homestead.

At home, I take a rabbit, killing and cleaning it for the stew. After I cut it up and put it in the pot, it’s followed by carrots, beets, and sweet potatoes and seasoned with rosemary, sage, and a whole clove of garlic. No salt to speak of, which is unfortunate, but I make do. It’ll taste passable. I fill the pot with water and put a lid on it. I grab two bowls and then lug the entire load back to the clearing.

Soldier is no longer being a moron and is laying down. He doesn’t startle when I come back and put the pot on the wood stove, being very careful to make sure it’s balanced and won’t fall over with the weight. Satisfied, I turn my attention back to him. 

I take the blanket off of him, ignoring his squeak of surprise and peeling back the layers of wool covering his wound. It’s still bloody as all get out, the wound made worse by this moron’s insistence on trying to get up. Still, it looks like my butterfly bandages are holding. He needs proper treatment though, which isn’t something I can provide. I don’t have thread thin enough to do proper stitches. 

Above me, his ruined clothing billows in the morning wind.

Oh, there’s an idea.

I clean his wound of the blood that spilled anew, being careful not to soak the sap that’s currently holding him together. I force him back down and then take his clothes down, investigating it’s make. It’s finely woven stuff, but I find the side seam quick enough. The thread that made the side seam is a bit thicker than the thread that makes up the actual shirt and looks like it can be used to sew his wound closed. I think back to the needles I have at home. They’re crude, and utterly unsuitable to sewing skin together. I look at his piles of armor, digging through it to find a--yup, a cloak attached with a pin. I take the brooch, checking over the mechanism before hacking at it once, twice, with my knife. The small pin holding it together breaks, and I have a tiny needle to sew someone’s wound closed. 

It’s risky, but better to sew him up than to rely on shoddy sap to provide the healing he’ll need. It’ll be painful, but hopefully he’ll pass out so he doesn’t have to go through the whole thing. 

I’ll need to go back to my homestead, so I can get more bandages and more water. And I’ll need to boil the needle and the string to clean them as best I can before I stitch him up. I know there’s a beehive in the south, so I’ll need to stop by there to gather some honey to put on his wound too. 

Damn, this guy is making me above and beyond, huh.

The universe better reward me for all this good person shit or I’m going to be pissed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surgery in the woods. 0/10 recommend. TRIGGER WARNING FOR GROSS BLOODY BODY STUFF

It’s become a habit to sing as I work, especially with mindless tasks like stirring a pot of soup or unthreading a shirt to carefully spool what I’ll be using for stitches around my fingers. I’m calculating what I’ll need to do to get equipment over here to operate, and how much this’ll draw on my supplies and what I need to do to restock for winter and the song flows from my lips:

_I was sleeping in the garden when I saw you first_

_He'd put me deep, deep under so that he could work_

_And like the dawn you broke the dark and my whole earth shook_

_I was sleeping in the garden when I saw you_

_At last, at last_

_Bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh, at last_

_You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen_

_Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings_

_And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me_

_You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you_

_At last, and you will surely be the death of me_

_But how could I have known?_

_I was sleeping in the garden, oh oh_

_I can show you_

_I was sleeping in the garden, oh oh_

My humming stops and I’m considering what song I want to sing next when he speaks. I jerk in shock, having forgotten his very existence. From his blanket bed, he smiles wanly at me, exhausted but happy. He speaks again in that strained whisper-murmur, but his eyes drift shut quickly and boom, he’s out like a light.

I check the stew, estimating it’ll probably take another few hours for it to finish cooking. I have the length of thread I’ll need to sew him up too, so this is as good a time as any to fetch the honey and the other things I’ll need for the operation. 

Before I go, I double check the soldier’s wounds and make sure a cup of water and some re-hydrated snacks are nearby before going back. 

At the homestead, I take up a jar and a long stick and I set out for the beehive. I’ve only rarely taken honey from it before. It’s a project that’s labor intensive and often doesn’t have good payoff, but I have to do it for the soldier to ease my consciousness. I’m committed now. At the bottom of the hive, I start another fire right underneath the hive, using leafy greens and greener wood to get thick smoke to surround the hive and make the bees sleepy. I wait an hour, keeping the fire fed, before I wrap my sash around my nose and mouth and make the ascent into the trees. With my knife and my stick, I carve a bit of the hive off, reaching in with careful fingers to pry out a bit of honey comb, tucking that into the jar I had carried up with me. I keep harvesting until my jar is full and then I retreat, being sure that no embers survive from the fire.

Back at my homestead, I begin to harvest the honey, separating the layers of beeswax on top for use later, while straining the honey through a sheared off section of my sash to ensure it’s as smooth as possible. In total, I have about a cupful to show for the hours of effort, and less than that of beeswax.

Hence why it’s never worth the effort.

I store my prizes in my house, out of reach of Jason, and go off to the stream to bath the stickiness and dirt and smoke from my body. When I return, I grab the honey, another pot full of water, and soapberries to haul back to the clearing with the soldier.

When I return, it’s mid afternoon and the stew is ready.

I set my operation tools aside to serve the food to the soldier, which he takes gratefully. Or, at least, he better be grateful. I sign ‘food’ at him again as I hand it over and he repeats the gesture. Then I remember his gut was fucked up and that he probably can’t sit up with ease. So I stop my surgery preparations to help him lift his head and feed him the stew slowly. At the end of the meal, he repeats what I suspect is thank you.

I repeat the sounds back at him, signing ‘thank you’ as I do.

He looks confused, so I hand him a filled up water cup and gesture that he gives it back. Slowly, he hands it over. I take it and set it down to sign ‘thank you’, repeating his word to him. 

The light of realization flashes in his eyes and he nods. 

“Thank you,” he says, and signs it. 

He winces, ever so slightly, and shifts. I realize that I’ve been forcing liquids down this guy’s throat without checking to see if he’s needed to piss. I touch his arm to get his attention before pointing at him, then picking up the cup and pouring it in a trickle into the pot of water. I point at him again. It’s a struggle to keep the grin off my face as he grimaces, the slightest of blushes turning his face pink.

Hilarious. Imagine how he’s been gravely injured, being taken care of by a child, and he’s embarrassed about having to pee. 

I snort, before getting back to my feet. I’ll need another jar for this so he can stick his dick into without feeling embarrassed. As I run back to my homestead, I wonder how much easier this would have been if I just bit the bullet and hauled this guy back home, so at least everything would be in a central location. Ah well. Probably for the better that he doesn’t know exactly where I live. Although that reminds me to approach from a different direction when I come back. 

I retrieve a few more jars and pots, just in case, to bring back with me on this trip. 

I have to wake him up when I return and I wait a moment for him to get his bearings before I hand him a jar. He’s horrifically embarrassed but I don’t let that stop me as I help turn him on his side so he can do his business as best as he can without getting anything in the splash zone. He still misses a bit, but it’s no sweat to clean it up. I set the piss jar aside before grabbing a few soapberries and lathering up both his hands and my hands and rinsing them clean. 

Now’s the moment of truth. 

I touch his hand again, to draw him out of the embarrassment spiral I can see going on in his eyes. 

I point at his big wound, then hold up the needle reclaimed from his brooch, then mime sewing. I sign ‘yes’ and mime sewing again. I sign ‘no’ and put the needle away. Then I repeat the action. I wait for his response. 

He looks down at his wound, contemplating. 

Then he signs ‘yes’.

A glance up at the sky tells me I don’t have enough time to prep all of my materials to get it done today so it’ll have to be done tomorrow. I check on his wound again, seeing that the butterfly bandages are doing their damndest. The blood has mostly clotted and I’ll have to clean it tomorrow so I have a good sightline, which is unfortunate but necessary.

I’m not sure why I’m so confident, since it’s not like I’ve done anything like this before. I’ve been remarkably lucky so far not to have terrible injuries requiring this sort of surgery so far. This guy will be my guinea pig then. If he lives, great. If he dies, then I can find out what I did wrong.

I pull the blanket up over him and stoke the fire, serving myself a bowl of the stew before setting it in the warm ashes of the fire so that it’ll keep warm through the night and serve as a breakfast tomorrow morning.

As the moon rises, he says something to me. I glance over at him, watching his eyes flutter with the tug of sleep. He repeats what he says. I parrot it back at him.

I assume he said good night, since he’s out a second later.

  
  


I get some sleep too, because I’m not an idiot, and I wake up first. 

Soldier is still asleep so I leave him be as I go check on my homestead. Everything looks fine. Another rabbit is pregnant again, which is nice. I make sure Jason is out to graze and then I return to the clearing. I’m just outside the line of trees when the soldier’s voice raises in another unintelligible call. I shush him as I step into the clearing. He looks relieved to see me, but that’s no surprise given I’m single handedly ensuring his survival right about now.

I wait until he looks at me to point at the pissjar again. He sheepishly signs ‘yes’ and I help him once more. I need to hurry up and fix this guy before he needs to shit.

That done and our hands cleaned, I set the Swedish stove burning again, settling a pot of water on it and dropping in the thread. I hold the needle up for the soldier, sign ‘yes’, and wait for him to sign ‘yes’ back before I drop the needle in too. It’ll have to boil to get disinfected before I use it. 

In the meantime, I serve the slightly-colder-than-lukewarm stew to the soldier and give him more to drink. Then I go out into the woods a bit to find a stick that’s the right size for him to bite on. I go back to my homestead to grab a few more materials and by the time I’m back, the water is boiling and bubbling. 

I wrap my acquired stick with a layer of wool and shove it in his mouth. He understands instantly what it’s for. I wash my hands using the water and soapberries again before lathering the berries so much that the entire water foams. The needle and thread are scooped out with a stick, and though the material is warm, it’s not hot enough to make me flinch back. I thread the needle quickly, setting it aside on a clean piece of wool. Using the foamy water, I reclean his wounds, feeling his muscles jump and tense and watching his jaw flex as he clenches his teeth around the wood.

Understandably, he’s tense as hell. 

I need him to relax, but I don’t share his language. I don’t know what words would comfort him. The only thing I can think to do is to sing. He seemed to like it when I did it the other day. It needs to be long and interesting, and not distracting to me, something that’s instinctual.

_My lover's got humor_

_She's the giggle at a funeral_

_Knows everybody's disapproval_

_I should've worshiped her sooner_

The wound starts bleeding sluggishly and I keep another bit of wool on hand to continue to wipe. I pick up the needle and put it to skin. 

_If the Heavens ever did speak_

_She's the last true mouthpiece_

_Every Sunday's getting more bleak_

_A fresh poison each week_

_"We were born sick", you heard them say it_

The resistance is weird for me and I can tell it hurts for him by the way his entire body seizes. It’s likely made worse by the fact that this isn’t a medical needle, but a shoddy adapted one for clothing.

_My church offers no absolutes_

_She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom"_

_The only Heaven I'll be sent to_

_Is when I'm alone with you_

_I was born sick, but I love it_

_Command me to be well_

_A-, Amen, Amen, Amen_

No way forward but through.

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

I sew to the midpoint of his wound, wiping up the blood with my spare bit of wool as I go, before cutting the string with my knife and tying it off. I give him a moment to breathe as I wipe my hands free from blood still singing. 

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

I tie the thread to the needle again before taking the wood from his mouth and giving him some water. He gulps it down gratefully and I give him a moment more, wiping more of the tacky blood away as I prepare to sew up the other side. 

_If I'm a pagan of the good times_

_My lover's the sunlight_

_To keep the Goddess on my side_

_She demands a sacrifice_

_Drain the whole sea_

_Get something shiny_

I put the needle to skin once more.

_Something meaty for the main course_

_That's a fine looking high horse_

_What you got in the stable?_

_We've a lot of starving faithful_

_That looks tasty_

_That looks plenty_

_This is hungry work_

I must hit something sensitive, because he jerks in pain, tugging my needle and thread and he screams, muffled through the wood and wool. I hold him down with as much strength as my tiny body can manage, which isn’t a lot, so I sing louder.

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me my deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me my deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

When he calms, I take the needle again, moving quicker to fix what he’s jolted free. I try to be steady, but it’s slow going. He’s breathing like he’s been running a marathon, the great bellows of his lungs working hard and quick, the expansion of his lungs and ribs throwing me even more off center. His wound is going to look ugly, but he can deal with it since he’ll be alive.

_No masters or kings when the ritual begins_

_There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_

_In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene_

_Only then I am human_

_Only then I am clean_

_Oh, oh, Amen, Amen, Amen_

I finally finish, giving the entire wound another wipe down with the soapy wool before taking up the jar of honey and dripping a bit on the wound. I take another bit of clean wool to smear it across the wound and then I put another layer on it just to be sure. I use part of the tattered remains of his own shirt to cover the wound, then put a layer of wool over that as extra bandage over that, and then tie it down the remains of his shirt. I sing the last stanza softer than normal, trying to exude an aura of calm as he comes down from that horrible experience.

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

_Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

When I dare look at his face, it’s lax in the ease of sleep.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First song: Like the Dawn by the Oh Hellos - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hd9vh89To4M  
> Second song: Take Me To Church by Hozier - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0imaSCnSuA


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn Soldier's name. We also learn my name, given to me by Soldier. So that's pretty nifty, I guess.

  
  
  
  
Soldier sleeps for a long time.

Three days, to be exact. 

I wake him up periodically to make sure he gets food and water and I clean him up when he soils himself--which is hella gross, but I spend a lot of time and effort make sure he got patched up and like hell I’m going to let all my hard work go to waste with infection. The operation probably took more out of him than the injury itself, given how sloppy it was. I almost feel bad about it, honestly. 

While I resist the urge to check his wound every hour, I cave and check it once a day. The high sugar concentration in the honey starves out any bacteria or microbes that would infect the wound and it provides a layer of protection from dirt and other things that would irritate the wound. However the moistness of the honey will prevent proper clotting. He needs professional help. 

Which, dammit, means I need to get that help.

I know where the common road is, I know I need to look for elves, but the idea of going out there--of being discovered by more people--is anxiety-inducing. I’ve gotten so used to isolation, with only the animals and nature for company, that being seen by any other creature is horrific to think of. Soldier is fine, he’s not a threat in the state that he is, but when he gets better, I know he’ll be a threat to my independence and livelihood. 

Best to get him out of here as soon as possible, before he regains full capacity of his wits and is able to track me down. 

That decided, on the first day of soldier’s sleep, I began to weave a stretcher. Two equally long sticks as the frame and the dried plant fiber to support him in between. It’ll have to drag and I’ll have to conscript Jason to help me pull it, but we could get him near the main road and then I would wait until I could flag down a passing elf patrol--of which there have been an increased amount--and they could pick him up and get him actual help.

And my consciousness would be at ease.

Okay, good plan.

On the second day, my non stop work has resulted in a decent stretcher, although I’m wary of how much injury I’ll cause when I drag this guy over the uneven forest ground. I should scout a smooth path so as to make the journey easier on all of us. I check him one last time, force water and some broth down his throat, and then I spend the rest of the daylight hours scouting a smooth and direct path to the main road just south. I typically avoid that area, after the incident a year ago, but needs must and all that. 

On the third day, the soldier finally wakes. I’m in the middle of cooking a rabbit, having stuffed it with rosemary and garlic and letting it slow-roast over the open flame on a spit, and I’m able to watch his nose twitch and see him wake as the scent of cooking meat and garlic suffuse the air around us. I let the meat cook, going over to help him take another cup of water.

“Thank you,” he says. Then he lifts a hand, patting himself twice on the chest. “Erestor.” Another few words and then: “Erestor.” Followed by another chest pat and then points at me. 

I blink at him. That’s his name? And now he’s asking for mine? 

Wow, this is awkward. 

I can’t remember my name, and it’s never occurred to me to name myself. That’s just ridiculous. The silence stretches out even longer and then I finally sign ‘no’.

There’s another pause as he just looks confused. Poor guy.

He points at himself, “Erestor.” We just went over this bud, but I can throw you a bone, I guess. I point at him.

“Erestor,” I repeat back.

He points at me.

Just to fuck with him, I point at myself and say, “Erestor.”

He signs ‘no’ and then says a word out loud that means absolutely nothing to me. He seems to realize that we’re at an impasse in terms of communication and huffs out a frustrated breath. I reach out to pat him on the shoulder. He smiles at me, saying thank you again. 

Leaving him be, I go back to check on the meat. A little dry, but the flavor of the rosemary and the garlic has seeped through well enough that the flavor should make up for it. Erestor is strong enough by now that he can sit up with minimal assistance. I check on his wound to make sure there’s no gush of blood and thank the heavens, there isn’t. I serve Erestor the food and make sure he eats what he can without overwhelming him before I make him lie down again. 

As night falls, with him resting and me singing, given how much it seems to soothe him. 

_ I don't want a friend  _

_ I want my life in two  _

_ Waiting to get there _

_ Waiting for you  _

I want to make a joke about him being a child who needs to be sung to sleep, but honestly, I enjoy singing to him. Corvo and Morrigan and Jason make for a decent audience, but as I sing I can watch Erestor’s face and his reactions. 

_ When I'm around slow dancing in the dark _

_ Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms _

_ You have made up your mind _

_ I don't need no more signs _

_ Can you? _

_ Can you? _

His fingers tap along to the beat and when he picks out the notes of the chorus, he hums along. Even from that I can tell he’s a fantastic singer. Wow, that’s unfair. I’m coasting on the grace of a young kid’s pure soprano, but I have a feeling puberty is going to rip that away from me sooner rather than later. Erestor sounds like he has full range. How unfair is that?

_ Give me reasons we should be complete _

_ You should be with him, I can't compete _

_ You looked at me like I was someone else, oh well _

_ Can't you see?  _

_ I don't wanna slow dance  _

_ In the dark _

_ Dark _

I abruptly remember I need to wipe him down, so I begin to lather up soap berries in the refilled water pot, soaking a square of wool as a washcloth. Erestor realizes what’s about to happen and tries to protest, but I ignore him, singing louder as I wash him down. I’ve cleaned your butthole, dude. There’s no barriers between us anymore.

_ When you gotta run _

_ Just hear my voice in you  _

_ Shutting me out of you  _

_ Doing so great  _

_ You _

I should really be getting paid for this, honestly. I’m doing so much for this man. He better not kick up a fuss tomorrow when I haul his ass to the main road.

_ Used to be the one  _

_ To hold you when you fall _

_ Yeah, yeah, yeah (when you fall, when you fall) _

_ I don't fuck with your tone (I don't fuck with your tone) _

_ I don't wanna go home (I don't wanna go home) _

_ Can it be one night? _

_ Can you? _

_ Can you? _

I finish wiping him down and put the wool cloth in the pot. I’ll need to empty the water later, but I’ll do it after I finish the song. I’ll need to bathe myself too, now that I think about it. I watch as Erestor’s eyes begin to drift shut, lulled to sleep by sheer exhaustion and the slower, melodic tone of the song.

_ Give me reasons we should be complete _

_ You should be with him, I can't compete _

_ You looked at me like I was someone else, oh well _

_ Can't you see? _

_ I don't wanna slow dance _

_ In the dark _

_ Dark _

_ In the dark _

_ Dark _

I expect him to be asleep by the time I finish, but I look across the fire to see his eyes locked on me. He says a sentence, and then pauses and says another. Then he points at himself and says, “Erestor.”

I nod. “Erestor.”

He points at me--says another word, pronounces it slowly. SEAR-lin-NA-rill.

Unbidden, the spelling arranges itself in my mind. Cýrlinnaril.

Did he...just name me?

“Cýrlinnaril,” he repeats, pointing at me again. At himself: “Erestor.” At me: “Cýrlinnaril.”

There’s some part of me that’s a bit offended at being named like a stray dog, but the majority of me is kind of touched. Did he spend this entire time thinking up a name? That’s honestly quite sweet for him to be so bothered by it. He could have just called me ‘girl’ or ‘child’ and I would have understood the tone from it alone. There was no need for him to be so concerned over a selectively mute child. 

But he was, and had thought up a name just for me. 

It’s...nice.

To have some care like that. 

I had forgotten what it was like, if I ever really remembered it, and I find myself warming to the name, and to Erestor for doing the naming.

“Erestor,” I say, pointing at him. 

He waits, seeing what I’ll do, how I’ll react.

I point at myself: “Cýrlinnaril.”

Erestor breaks into a wide smile, wider than I had ever seen before--well, to be fair, given his situation there probably wasn’t much to smile about. Still, I can’t help but grin back at how clearly pleased he is that I accepted his name for me. 

“Cýrlinnaril Cýrlinnaril, Cýrlinnaril,” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. It’s a bit awkward but the more I say it, the more I like it.

In terms of a parting gift, it’s damn nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK by Joji - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzjUs5yR68o
> 
> meaning of her name: Cýrlinnaril translates to "renewed singer" and Erestor gives her this name because she's literally constantly singing or humming (more than even shown in the narration), and it's specifically songs that he doesn't know. Hence. Renewed singer. Bc it's new songs. And it's renewed every hour. 
> 
> also, this bitch still doesn't know she's an elf lmao


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more elves, more clowns

On the dawn of day six of Erestor’s stay in my forest, I scout the path I plan to haul his ass through from the clearing all the way to the main road. As clear as it can be, really, and I’ve also found a nice slope in this area that will be easier on Erestor’s wound and my back. I’m marking the nearest tree with my knife when my luck decides to make a move, though at first glance I’m not sure if it’s good luck or bad luck. 

I hear them first--hoofbeats and the jingle of tack--and I don’t think before I throw myself into the underbrush as quietly as I can. I watch them approach, my breath held as I wait. It’s a group of fifteen, lacking the heavy armor of Erestor but sharing the same coat of arms. It’s gold six pointed star within a dark-blue-and-gold six pointed star within a light-blue-and-white six petaled flower and some more gold embellishments on the very outside. Extra, but whatever. 

They’re going to be passing this way soon. 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

I have to choose: flag them down now and get Erestor help immediately, or wait for them to pass and hope another team comes down the way later to pick him up?

Oh heavens, I hate making decisions without having time to think them through. 

SHIT!

Without giving my nerves a chance to fail me, I stand up, the foliage around me shaking with the abrupt motion. 

Then I have to throw myself back behind a tree as an arrow embeds right where I was standing.

“Oi!” I shout, unable to help myself. 

There’s silence and I risk a peek out from behind my tree. The sound seemed to stall the squadron, now a mere thirty feet away, and my appearance throws them into a confused tizzy. I notice that the person at the head of the group is a) level headed and cool about this and b) drop dead gorgeous. Even seated on a horse, he looks like he’d be tall as a tree, with long golden hair and a fine-featured, strong, and--there’s no other word for it--noble face. I kind of want to hate him on principle, but given that I can clearly see he’s like, glowing a little bit, I can’t stop thinking about human glow sticks and I find myself entertained enough to forgive him his trespasses.

One of the group nudges the horse forward and I recoil on instinct. Hot-leader-guy holds up a hand and the group around him falls silent and still. He says something, pitching his voice so it carries, but still ensuring it sounds gentle. Nice sentiment, but I have no idea what he’s saying and I sort of don’t care. 

I point at him and gesture for him to come closer. 

The group all exchanges glances with each other, but hot-leader-guy nudges his horse forward and mmmm, don’t like that. I hold up a hand to stop and he stops. He understands boundaries. That’s a good sign. I point at him and bounce my finger from his horse to the ground. He looks confused and I realize I’ve been spoiled by Erestor’s mostly-immediate understanding of my Frankenstien sign language. 

I don’t really want to waste anymore time here, so instead I gesture again for him to follow me and I go back into the woods. 

I can hear the scramble as horses try to catch up and people shout as I disappear into the foliage, but I get a bit away before I wait to see who will follow. I’ll give them thirty seconds and if there’s nothing, I’ll throw a rock at them or something.

Ten seconds later and hot-leader-guy is entering the woods, followed by two equally blonde other people who are also hot, but not as hot as hot-leader-guy. They catch sight of me instantly, and one of the sidekicks crouches down, speaking to me in that nonsense language and holding out a bit of dried food.

I treat him to my most derisive look, which is powerful indeed, because it makes hot-leader-guy and other sidekick snicker as the food-guy blushes and tucks the food away again.

I gesture for them to follow me and then I move towards the clearing.

I can hear talking behind me, and I check over my shoulder every now and again to make sure they’re keeping up. Which they are, even though I expected that armor to make moving that much more difficult. Still, Erestor was able to get in this deep with his armor and it’s just as bulky as theirs so I guess these guys must get special training or something. Or maybe it’s just an elf thing.

We’re a few feet away from the clearing, when I hear: “Cýrlinnaril?” 

Erestor, and he’s sounding pretty panicked. That makes sense. I normally wake him up with food by this point, so it’s fair to assume he’d be concerned to be food-less and Cýrlinnaril-less. I speed up, breaking through the tree-line and I get to see Erestor’s relieved face at my reappearance. Then it turns into a concerned-and-then-afraid face when I hurry over towards him and get behind him, as the path behind me rustles with the movement of something large. He grabs at his sword, which I had long since handed over to him, and he’s levering himself up when hot-leader-guy busts through.

There’s a shocked pause before they both blurt out a word.

Hot-leader-guy says Erestor’s name, but I don’t catch what Erestor said. 

Well, they seem to know each other, so that’s good. Still, I should double check. I touch Erestor’s shoulder to get his attention. When he looks at me, it’s with naked relief and something like joy. I point at the group and sign ‘yes’ and then sign ‘no’. Erestor signs ‘yes’.

Oh, fantastic. Confirmation I didn’t royally screw up. 

Hot-leader-guy sends food-guy sidekick off, presumably to get more people and I grab my stretcher and drag it over to where Erestor is resting. I snap at hot-leader-guy and when I have his attention, I point at Erestor and then the stretcher, assuming he can figure out the rest himself. He nods. Smart boy.

That done, it’s time for goodbyes. 

It feels sort of awful, honestly. I had gotten used to being around Erestor, and caring for him. Communicating with someone other than my animals--who I have seriously neglected, oops. Still, I don't like crowds and I don't like the idea of people flooding my territory like this. Best I get out as soon as possible to avoid the fuss. They'll probably just grab Erestor and dip, and then I'll come back and clean up this clearing later. Honestly, there is a bit of relief as well to go back to my normal, even though I can admit to myself it’ll be a bit lonely. 

I reach out and pat his (hella greasy) hair.

“Erestor, bye-bye,” I say. He looks confused, but he’s a smart kid so I have to dip before he puts it together and tries to do something dumb like insist on repaying me. Or worse, thanking me. Hot-leader-guy and sidekick are busy talking, so I quickly turn and cross the clearing, aiming for the food pot before passing it and stepping into the treeline.

“Cýrlinnaril!” I hear and that’s my cue! I dash off after Erestor’s frantic shout and whatever following words. I can hear pursuit almost a second afterwards but that’s a big guy in heavy armor wandering unfamiliar woods. I’m small and light and this is my hometurf. I duck under branches and dive and roll through the underbrush that stalls the hot-leader-guy.

I’m wiser and stronger and faster than that first chase so many years ago, but shit this guy is fucking good. I can’t seem to lose him, no matter how many tricks and backtracks I pull. Dodging around a tree and I can feel his fingertips brush against the back of my shirt before he runs into a branch that hits him right in the gut. I can’t help but let out a breathless giggle at his “OOF” sound. 

I race down to the stream, crossing over it, and then looping around to the little stone hill thing that I scramble over before veering north-east the other far corner of the forest. 

There. Now I’m too far to track or pursue and Erestor’s buddies will be forced to choose between getting him medical help or chasing down one mysterious and incredibly dirty child. Easy choice, honestly. I decide to find a nice oak tree to spend the night in. It’s edging from spring into summer, so I’ll probably be fine spending time in the open, even if this is closer to the cold mountain breezes. I circle the tree, trying to find the best path up and the nicest interlocking branches to spend the night in because lord knows climbing these monsters can be hell.

“Mae govannen.” I hear and I shriek as a hand fists itself in the back of my shirt. The old material begins to rip as I squirm against that iron-grip but the hot-leader-guy must have taken a child-wrangling class or something, because I can’t for the life of me escape his grip. I writhe as I can, trying to rely on a child’s natural snake-like tendencies to have my bones turn to jello, but it doesn’t work, with his arm locked around my waist. 

He’s walking and talking throughout this entire thing, as if he was on a casual hike with friends and not clambering over rocky hills and uneven ground with a worm-emulator hissing at him.

I remember the knife tucked into my belt and I squirm around enough to reach a hand in and pull it out. He shouts in alarm at the flash of metal and it takes all my concentration to stab him and not me. I briefly forget he’s wearing armor and have the dubious pleasure of watching my nice knife skid off of his forearm. He plucks the dagger out of my grip with ease, tucking it somewhere behind him where I can’t reach it. I howl my displeasure at losing my knife.

Had a chance and wasted it.

“Cýrlinnaril,” he says, which catches my attention and I unintentionally stop squirming enough for him to shift his grip, holding me out in front of him with both of his hands lifting me by my armpits. Ow, that hurts. I’m not Simba, you dolt. He assesses me seriously before saying something rather declarative. I spit at him, but I miss and it lands on his armor instead. For some reason, he looks amused. He tucks me under an arm like I’m a pile of firewood, repeating something aloud.

I don’t know why but I feel offended.

  
  


I’m thrown over hot-leader-guy’s shoulders when we step into the clearing again. It’s buzzing with activity: people breaking down the camp (fine), people going through the things I made and brought for Erestor (rude), and people checking on Erestor (good).

Seeing Erestor, I start wriggling again, which only makes hot-leader-guy’s hands clamp down on me even harder. (I tried the go-lax-and-then-surprise-with-squirming technique about halfway through the journey and he’s been on the lookout for it since then.) However, I have a trump card.

I’m baby.

Feeling a flush of embarrassment before I even commit the act, I quickly tamp down on it to bring all my acting ability to the forefront. I make eye contact with Erestor--easy, since he was already looking at me when we appeared--and I reach out to him.

“Erestor!” I cry out, infusing my voice with all the exhaustion and irritation and general upset vibe I feel and adding a bit of I-am-going-to-start-crying to my voice as well.

Shit, that was like dropping a bomb.

The entire camp freezes, everyone turning instinctively at the sound of a child in distress. Freaky, but I commit to the act--thinking about sad things like that one time squirrels got into my dried food stash--to make tears come to my eyes. I turn my reaching hands into something deadly: they become grabby hands. 

“Erestor!” I cry again, and shit, too real, I’m actually going to start sobbing with frustration at this point. 

The second time is enough for Erestor--repaying his debt by becoming my savior this time around--to look pissed as hell, snapping at hot-leader-guy who surrenders me to Erestor’s side lickety-split. Since I’m committing to the act, I tuck myself into Erestor’s non-injured side, curling my fingers into the fabric of his pants and practically hiding behind him, away from hot-leader-guy. I sniff, loudly, and glare at him. Slightly less impact from the way I’m hiding in the protective curve of Erestor’s side but anyone judging can bite me. See how they feel about being unwillingly hauled around by a giant for the past thirty minutes.

Worst, hot-leader-guy looks like he’s about to start cooing at my reaction. He doesn’t even have the decency to look like he feels bad about it. Bastard!

A sidekick comes from one edge of the clearing--the direction my fucking homestead is in--and starts talking to the newly-dubbed Bastard. He starts talking, energetic and fast, and draws the attention of those nearby. Bastard himself looks increasingly in disbelief at sidekick. He glances at me and I stick my tongue out automatically. That makes him smile. Okay, I should have expected that. Nevertheless, the Bastard talks to the sidekick and then a handful of people disappear into the woods. Bastard walks up to where Erestor and I are. 

I glare at him, shuffling ever closer to Erestor.

A conversation goes on between Erestor and Bastard, and wow, I am really not vibing with not understanding what’s being spoken around me. Maybe I should have pestered Erestor for more lessons these past few days.

Anyways, don’t these assholes know it’s rude to speak in a language someone else can’t understand?

Around us, people seem to be edging back towards the forest road and I know that we’re about to leave. They’re getting antsy about staying still. The way they’re all kitted out in armor and weapons, how battered and exhausted some of them appear...there’s obviously some sort of conflict going on. Nothing’s passed by my woods though, and I’ve never gone beyond the border, so I’m unsure what the threat is. Maybe it’s something related to plot? I know there were ages before the movies, but I’m not sure of any details. It’s been so long since I’ve had to concern myself with issues of this world. My memory regarding this world and it’s details have faded over time. I was so much more concerned with making sure I didn’t forget any music or poetry that spoke to my soul that I forgot entirely that this world is, in essence, made up.

That sparks something existential in me so I quickly shove it aside.

“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says, and I look at him. Words--the Peanuts adult sound for all I understand--and then he’s being peeled away from me by other people helping him into my slap shod stretcher. I scramble upright, sticking close to him as I walk alongside him with the others. Back at the forest road, the horses are assembled and fuck they’re large. I hesitate to go near, but I brave them for Erestor. The other soldiers get him up on a horse and Bastard himself mounts up behind him, apparently the one who’s been saddled--haha--with Erestor-sitting duty. 

It occurs to me that now would be a great time to make another dash for it, but as I think that, I’m scooped up by another set of arms and before I can blink, I’m up on a horse, seated side-saddled in front of a rather lovely female elf, who smiles kindly at me. 

Well.

That decides that, I guess.

Onwards to Rivendell, I guess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not a sustainable system but for those curious here's the approximation of what the elves say to her
> 
> First, when she's by the road and flags them down, hot-leader-guy aka Glorfindel: "It's okay, child, we shall not harm you."  
> Second, in the forest, when food-guy tries to give her food: "Hey there, are you hungry? I have some fruit."  
> Third, the elf convo in the woods boils down to: "Why the fuck is there an elf child in the middle of the woods, right next door to Rivendell, and how in the fuck did we not notice?"  
> Fourth, "Mae govannen." is like "Well met/Nice to meet you" and yes, he means it sarcastically bc he's had to chase this child around for like half an hour in hard terrain and he's exhausted  
> Fifth, after Cýrlinnaril tries to stab him: "You are definitely Erestor's."  
> Sixth, when the scout comes back and reports to Erestor: he basically freaks out about Cýrlinnaril's homestead and speculates she's been alone there for years (correct) and that her parents must have died en route to Rivendell (incorrect) but they really admire/are baffled by the fact she's managed to live alone like this  
> Seventh, Erestor and Glorfindel tell each other what happened from their respective sides before agreeing they should get a move on


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> being petty. learning vocab like this is kindergarten or some shit. birds. a lullaby. in that order.
> 
> this chapter is brought to you by a username change and that 1 AM impulse

I’ve decided that the elf squad I’ve been quasi-kidnapped by aren’t that bad.

Mostly because not even an hour into the ride my stomach rumbled and immediately there were approximately six hands offering up food. Nice. I take from all six hands, because I’m hungry and also no one stopped me.

The only thing I can’t figure out is why they grabbed me when I would have been perfectly fine in the forest. Maybe they think I’m just some lost, helpless kid? Kind of them, but utterly unnecessary. I debate for a while when I want to slip off the horse I’m on and escape back, but the lady I’m riding with keeps a tight hold of me to keep me from slipping off. Rest in pieces, I guess.

Still, I can debate the pros and cons of staying.

Pros: they’ll probably provide food and clothes and a nice bed and a bath and actually, I don’t need to list the cons, I’ve managed to convince myself with just that. Nodding to myself, I decided that it can’t hurt to stay for a while. I can learn the language, get fed for a bit, and then when I get kicked out or I get fed up with them, I can just return to my forest. 

As I eat the food provided to me, I try to figure out how to ask about my animals--Morrigan and Corvo and Jason as well as my rabbits--and my homestead in the first place, but I have to face the fact that my conversation skills are totally not up to par.

Dammit.

Still, I can try signing to Erestor. I pat the arm of the soldier riding with me to get her attention before I point at Erestor. She gamely urges her horse forward until we pull even with Bastard and Erestor. My adopted disaster man is looking pale as hell when I see his face. I frown, forgetting my mission in my concern.

“Erestor,” I say, and when he looks at me, I sign ‘food’ and then ‘yes’ and hand over the dried fruit I was saving for last. He needs sugar to get his energy back. I begin to chew up the last of the jerky, softening it before spitting it out into my hand and offering it over too. It’s gross, but also highly entertaining to see the disgusted look on Bastard’s face before he struggles to cover it up. The woman riding with me also lets out a snort. Oh, good taste, lady.

Erestor, used to me by now, signs ‘no’ to the meat, but takes the fruit.

Good boy.

I shrug and put the jerky back into my mouth to chew and swallow. I ensure Erestor eats, before I make him lift up his shirt--and when did I miss someone providing him an extra?--and I check on his wound, leaning so far off the horse that the lady I’m riding with has to hold me up by the back of my shirt. I know a healer looked at him already and must have cleared him for this, but it makes me feel better to see it with my own eyes.

Beneath the layer of honey, it seems like the wound is still tightly sewed. As far as I can tell, no pus or inflammation. Still, I hope Rivendell is close--come to think of it, the first time I heard that name was from those men way long ago. Why were those three scruffy looking nerf herders near that place, I wonder?

Hmm.

Something to ponder later.

Anyways, I finish my inspection and then pat Erestor’s arm as a reward for having a good immune system. 

“Thank you, Cýrlinnaril,” he says. 

“Thank you, Erestor,” I say back.

There’s a coo around me and I look around to see the collective gazes of the group on me and Erestor. At a guess: they were watching me do my inspection with amusement. I can see the expression on their faces--bemused, entertained, as if endeared by Erestor indulging me. One of the closer ones starts talking at me in that shitty tone of voice, the one where you can tell they’re speaking down at you. I can’t understand the language, but I don’t need to know the words to tell that it’s debasing.

That’s...pretty fucking annoying. 

I know I’m a kid to their eyes, but I’m also the person who fixed Erestor up. Who else did they think was in the clearing? Some other absent adult? They know I have some skill, that I was the one who saved his life and patched him up, albeit messily. 

Them treating me like this? Insulting.

“Fuck off,” I snap at them. My violent response seems to take some of them aback. They weren’t expecting that from a child now were they? They don’t understand the words I said, but tone can be universal and they know exactly what I mean. 

A silence descends and from the way some of them fidget, they must find it awkward. 

Not my goddamn problem.

The Bastard slings out a line that breaks the tension instantly, most of the group breaking out into smiles, if not outright laughing. I look at Erestor for a cue. He doesn’t look entertained, but he doesn’t look too insulted either. In fact, he looks over at me with a small smirk on his face, and it takes a moment to be able to identify the expression on his face.

It looks a little like he’s pleased? With me? 

Nah, I just yelled at his people. It must be my imagination. 

It’d be nice though.

  
  


Midday passes soon enough when a break is called. 

Everyone gets off their horses, evidently more at ease here than they were even a few miles away. Huh. They must feel very confidently safe here then. I wonder if we’re getting close. The lady soldier lets me down and I immediately scamper over to Erestor as he’s helped down and then checked over by the same guy who looked over him this morning, who makes him drink something from a flask and then pronounces something in a tone that sounds positive. I’m going to assume Erestor is healing well then. 

There’s a midday meal being passed out--some sort of shortbread it looks like? Gotta get my hands on some of that, I haven’t had baked goods in a lifetime--when Erestor grabs my hand where it’s resting on his shoulder. I look at him, where he’s sitting up with relative ease. Weird. He looks a lot better now. Must have been that drink.

Erestor pats the ground by him and I take a seat. He points at a horse and says a word. I blink. He says it again, slowly.

Oh, so we’re doing this now? Alright.

I repeat the word for horse. 

We proceed like that for the rest of the break, sharing a piece of honey-flavored shortbread, though I could only eat half of it before feeling full. I learn horse, sword, trees, ground, sky, hair, skin, blood, and anything else that Erestor could think to point to and name. 

When the group mounts back up, Erestor and I have moved onto a game where he points at something and I’ll have to name it. 

It’s hard, but I know the sooner I learn this language, the easier it will be for me.

  
  


The journey goes on and the further we go, the more the group lightens up. 

There’s talking and songs and a general air of ease that was such a contrast to how jumpy everyone was just this morning, on the edge of my forest. I’m still riding with the soldier lady, who’s carefully enunciated to me that her name is Astordil. She hasn’t cooed over me even once, which makes her cool in my books. She and I as well as the Bastard and Erestor have drifted to the middle of the group, instead of the head. Ideal defensive position, I notice.

As the afternoon creeps on and as one song fades into nothing, there’s a bout of good natured arguing. I think. It’s a bit hard to go on just tones from these people. 

“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says and then something. And then the Bastard speaks, looking at me eagerly, and I get distracted in order to glare at him. “Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor repeats. He sings a line softly, then stops and names it. Voice? Music? Song? Singing? This is an abstract concept, Erestor, I’m gonna need more from you. 

He repeats the word, singing a different line. Not song, singular then? Does he….wait, does he want me to sing? For these clowns? I hum a few notes of the first song I had sung him and repeat his word back to him. Erestor signs ‘yes’.

I hesitate, looking again at Erestor. His face is pleasant but blank. Letting me make the choice? Or maybe he actually did just want to teach me the word? Goddammit, I wish I knew more of this elf language. It would have been so much easier if I was born as a full grown elf with this shit already programmed into my brain instead of a scrawny human kid.

So, to sing or not to sing.

I normally wouldn’t deny him a song. Erestor has proven a good audience, but I don’t like the gazes of others on me. I feel too seen, too exposed, and I abhor it after years alone.

Still, I don’t think Erestor would ask me to sing. He doesn’t seem like the type to make someone else perform, especially since these elves seem to have a song always at the ready.

But what if he really did want me to sing?

Fuck it, I think and I’m opening my mouth to start whatever, when I remember I’m upset at these clowns and I shut my jaw again. Erestor looks inquisitive, but Bastard says something that he obviously can’t help but respond to with a sharp tone. The bickering starts up and I roll my eyes and settle back into the seat to wait until our arrival.

  
  


We don’t arrive by the time night falls.

Instead, an hour before dusk, the elves all start making camp. I approve of the way they lay Erestor out first and check him over first. The same elf as last time--dark haired, grey eyed, and as ephemerally beautiful as everyone else here--is the one to look at him again. Considering his armor is just slightly different than everyone else’s with a few more embellishments, I’m guessing this is the combat medic of their group. Anyways, this dude checks Erestor over and chats, and at one point nods approvingly at me, which is nice. As the camp is set up a bit away from the main road, two people disappear into the woods around us and return with a brace of rabbits and a few pheasants. 

I wander over to help, but I get tripped up by watching how skillfully these guys gut and clean the kill. There’s one attempt to shoo me off, but I slap the hand away and keep my seat as I watch how nimble fingers cut tendons to slip bones out. Interesting. Never thought of that method before. I wish I had a notebook to write this all down in. 

Dusk begins to fall as dinner is being cooked and bedrolls laid out. I hear familiar caws and look up in the trees to see Corvo and Morrigan waiting in the branches. I can’t help my grin. I go over to Astordil, holding my hands out a la Oliver Twist in a ‘please, sir, may I have some more’ pose that’s a universal begging-for-food sign. Indulgently, she gives me some more dried fruit, a few unintelligible words on her tongue.

“Thank you,” I say, politely, and then turn to the trees. “Corvo, Morrigan! Here!” I head to the treeline, hearing chatter break out but ignoring it, as the two birds fly down to land one on my outstretched arm and another on my shoulder. Heavy bastards. I sit quickly, depositing them on the ground and wait. I bow at my waist and they do a quick bobbing motion of a bow. I hand them each a ripped off piece of the fruit to reward them for performing the trick well. Then they start bobbing like crazy, which makes me laugh and not mind as they lunge for the fruit in my hands. They’re careful with their wings, settling on both of my knees as I hold my hands flat like a plate just for them that they eat from eagerly. Every so often, they’ll get too excited and nip at my hands, but I hardly mind. 

When they’ve eaten, they gamely endure my petting them before I hear footsteps and they take off in a flurry of black feathers. I turn and glare at the Bastard, ready to yell at him for disturbing Corvo and Morrigan like that--they’re shy, okay? They don’t like strangers--but he’s offering me a bowl of stew with a sheepish smile on his face. I take another moment to hold my glare before taking the bowl. Waste not, want not and stuff. I wander back over to where Erestor is resting, being fed soup by one of the other elves here and I take a seat by him. I hesitate, before slowly slurping.

The stew.

Is.

Amazing.

God, what a difference salt makes! I wish I could say I savored each mouthful but honestly, I guzzled that shit and went back for seconds. The elf attending the stew bowl hesitated, but guess what assholes, I know your weakness. I hold the bowl out again, glad to have a prop to imitate Oliver Twist again, and shoot him the most devastating puppy eyes I can humanly manage. Wow these guys need to work on their poker faces. Chef dude practically melts, cooing in their nonsense language as he deals out another bowl. I grin in thanks before going back down to sit. 

Would I get sick from this? Probably. 

Did I care? No. 

YOLO.

After I finish the second bowl, the exhaustion hits me like a sledgehammer. Ugh. Sleepy. I wanna curl up and sleep for several hours but I still gotta clean up and then sing a lullaby to Erestor because...tradition, I guess. Could you make traditions in only a few days? Jury’s out. I look around to see what everyone else is doing with their dishes but Astordil takes the bowl out of my hands before I can even begin looking. Okay. Handy. The elves seem to have a system in place, and since they have it handled, I’ll leave them to it. 

Lullaby time. It’s kind of embarrassing having other people so close, but I judge that since they’re so busy cleaning and stuff, I can sing something softly enough to Erestor that they won’t notice. I turn to him, settling cross legged by his head. He also looks on the verge of sleep, but is obviously keeping his eyes open when I shift. I hesitate, before settling on a song. It’s been a while since I’ve sung this one, but the lyrics are locked solidly into my head, despite being in a completely different language. Another moment of hesitation, as Erestor looks at me expectantly, but since I’m not a little bitch, I commit when I reach out and stroke his head before I sing, barely audible to myself. 

_Idir ann is idir as_

_Idir thuaidh is idir theas_

_Idir thiar is idir thoir_

_Idir am is idir áit_

_As an sliogán_

_Amhrán na farraige_

_Suaimhneach ná ciúin_

_Ag cuardú go damanta_

_Mo ghrá_

I’m interrupted by myself yawning, like some sort of weakling. The soft sounds of the song, made quieter by my own choice, are lulling even me to sleep. Erestor himself has let his eyes slip close, even though I can tell from the flicker underneath his eyelids and his shallow breathing that he’s still awake. I wrestle myself under control to finish the song.

_Idir gaoth is idir tonn_

_Idir tuile is idir trá_

_As an sliogán_

_Amhrán na farraige_

_Suaimhneach ná ciúin_

_Ag cuardú go damanta_

_Idir cósta, idir cloch_

_Idir brí is idir muir_

_Tá mé idir ghrá_

I hum the chorus again as I lay down right where I’m at, curled protectively around Erestor’s head. I hear the flutter of wings, the caw of Corvo and Morrigan, and then I’m slipping into sleep, easy as breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, she still does not realize she is an elfling. she thinks she's just a very malnourished human child. in her defense, all of her brain cells are currently preoccupied with survival and music.
> 
> The Bastard, when Cyr snaps at everyone: "Of all the elfings to find in the world, you had to stumble across one with a sharpness matches yours, Erestor."
> 
> Song: Amhrán Na Farraige from the movie Song of the Sea - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FkiHtTO-mk
> 
> me, realizing i'm going to have to make more elf ocs so that Rivendell can feel more rounded out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh-sAwpAYPs  
> anyways hope y'all are chill with adult elf ocs bc uh, that's what you're getting


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell finally. Ew people. Pondering clam saliva. Astordil being a goddamn trooper. More people, but less ew. A REAL FUCKIN BATH.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mild panic attack

We wake up. Camp gets packed. I miss coffee so much I’d be willing to stab someone. We get on horses. We set off. My ass is so sore that I kind of want to cry, kind of want to stab Bastard for doing this to me.

And two hours later, we cross a bridge and there Rivendell is.

Not to sound like an old white woman, but damn that shit is breathtaking.

The waterfall takes my attention first, a rushing, roaring thing that at once feels all consuming and comforting. Then the buildings draw my eye. The sunlight catches on the pale wood, gleaming albicant and eburnean and hoary ash--all white, but threaded silver and also grey. It’s fascinating to watch as the colors seem to shift before my eyes. The smell of fresh and strong plant life, of rushing water, of flowers in bloom surges to the forefront. Above the clatter of hooves on stone and tack hitting metal and rushing waters, I can hear the fainest, softest strains of harp floating through the air. 

Oh, I need to get my hands on one of those. Think of all the songs I could--

There’s a flurry of motion as people surge out of the buildings--seriously, so pretty, all tall and elegant and carved so intricately--and Erestor and several others and rushed out of sight. Astordil keeps a tight grasp on me when I first wiggle to get down, instinct telling me to pursue after my wayward charge (Erestor). Pouting when I realize I can’t move, I cross my arms over my chest and wait, getting more and more tense as people just keep LOOKING at me. 

It’s fucking unnerving. 

You’d think these fucks have never seen a malnourished human child before.

Actually, they probably haven’t. I remember in the movies elves being sort of elitist assholes. Wow. They need to get out more. And if I’m saying that, you know it’s true. 

I wait in Astordil’s arms until an elf in a green dress and brunette hair shows up and the two talk. I hear Elrond, which is the only name I know from the movies and I’m too busy reeling over the fact that ‘oh shit he actually is a real life breathing person now’ that I forget to protest before the green dress lady grabs me.

The touch of her hands on my waist makes me yelp and I shove her off, falling backwards out of Astordil’s loosened grip and hitting the stone floor on my back, the impact winding me. I lay for a moment, stunned, before I suck a breath in and--

“MOTHERFUCKER!” I shout and then the pain races through me, as if cursing was the fucking gunshot for a race. I hear frantic shouts and people moving and the green dress lady is circling around and trying to grab me again and Astordil’s very large, very tall, very intimidating horse shuffles nervously and the noise is fucking defeaning. It’s too much. All of it.

After years alone in the forest, I can’t--I can’t do this. 

Fuck this clown shit.

I’m OUT.

Good for you for getting medical attention, Erestor, but also I didn’t sign up for this circus.

I roll out of the way of the green dress lady’s reach, going under Astordil’s horse, and scuttling forward like a wrong-jointed cat across part of the courtyard. More yelling and god, can’t these people shut up? Someone reaches out for me, catches the fabric of my shirt and has a hold even as I squirm. Lucky for me, the poor thing has had enough and  _ riiippppp _

Dammit! But I don’t have time to be angry about how that shirt has survived five years before I got caught up with elves, but I note it to be pissed about later. There’s still too many people grouped on the bridge for me to pass by but I’m betting this unnecessarily huge, definitely-compensating-for-something place can’t be an island. It’s connected to the land and to my forest somewhere and I’ll fucking find out where. 

I duck to the side, dodging another arm reaching for me, and nearly run right into another one. I barely have time to gasp before I hear a familiar screech and two black crows are descending, clawing at the dude’s face so he has no choice but to retract his hand to defend his own mug. I can’t help my delighted laugh. 

“Thanks, Corvo! Morrigan!”

I plunge into the bowels of Rivendell.

  
  


Alright, admittedly, that’s a misnomer.

Bowels is totally incorrect. Even running around like I am, I can tell from brief glances that Rivendell is gorgeous beyond belief. They probably, I don’t know, painted the whole place in pearl dust or some shit. I duck under a guard rail and sprint across a garden space, sliding into a hallway and around a group of baffled women, keeping several feet ahead of a rapidly gaining Astordil and Co.

Wait, epiphany. Pearls are just hardened clam spit. That’s so gross. I turn down a hallway and spot stairs that I dash up, ignoring keeping my steps quiet to get speed. That’s the important part here. A lady carrying a basket full of cloth looks at me curiously before her gaze flickers up to the people in pursuit. Her eyes off of me gives me enough time to get close and shove her off balance. She goes down, her basket goes up, blankets go everywhere. Sorry.

Why do people even like pearls if everyone knows it’s just clam spit? Seriously, it makes no sense. I duck into the first open doorway I see, ignoring the yelp of an elf lady with long black hair as I gun for her window that is a) open and b) facing a tree. I climb onto her reading bench and take a half second to judge the distance before I leap for the branches. For a second, my heart surges into my throat, but my body knows better than my brain what it can do. My hands grasp the branch and I hear a cry of shock. I risk a look over my shoulder. Dark haired elf lady is at the window, looking at me with eyes that are such a beautiful storm-cloud, moonlight grey that I pause for a moment to be taken aback by them. 

Damn, even her skin looks pearl-dusted, what is with this place? They don’t actually polish the halls with pearl dust, do they? So extra. I haul myself up onto the branch, testing it for a moment for weight. Below me, people have spotted me and a soldier that looks vaguely familiar is circling like a shark, trying to find a way up. Astordil is in the window, reaching an arm out for me. I know she’d jump too if these thin-ass branches could hold any weight but my own. 

Oh no, is that a ladder? Fuck.

The idea of someone getting their hands on me again sends a shudder down my spine. Hell no. I scan around me, spotting a nearby jut of a roof. A memory tickles at my head--an image of a man in a white hood running, jumping, leaping across rooftops with the smoothest of ease--and I blink it clear. It’s as good a plan as any at the moment. The ladder is at the base of the tree. I judge my distance, and dash for it. More cries of shock and holy shit, elves shut your pie hole challenge. 

Ah, too far.

Totally misjudged the distance on that, my bad. My hands slap onto the roof and I grab hold of the decorations, halting my slide. More gasps, a shriek for some variety. I roll my eyes even as I kick my feet, trying to get a foothold on another unnecessary decoration. 

“Cýrlinnaril.”

Ugh, I know that voice. I look down at the Bastard, who has the audacity to look concerned, standing under me with his arms spread in a let-go-and-I’ll-catch-you pose. What do you think this is, a movie? There are more and more people gathering in the little garden clearing. Fuck, don’t these people have anything else to do? Go away, it’s nothing but a kid trying to establish independence. 

Bastard says a few things in that shitty-ass tone, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal instead of a reasonable, logical adult who’s making wise decisions for herself. 

Current dangling from a roof notwithstanding. 

I turn my head, wondering if I could manage to spit at him over my shoulder. No, it’d just get caught on my clothes. Fuck, am I really going to be petty enough to lose a grip just so I can turn enough to spit on the Bastard?

God.

Yeah.

I let go of my left hand, my right still clutching tight--more gasping! Can these people make any other noise? Asking for a friend--just so I have the right angle to spit at the Bastard. It lands on his shoulder armor thing. He looks mildly bemused. A few faces in the crowd looked devastated and shocked. At spitting? Damn, these people are way too uptight. Not bothered dusting their whole house with clam saliva but when it’s human saliva it’s suddenly no good? They’re racist, I’m calling it now.

I don’t have a chance to ponder that thought longer, because a hand closes around my wrist. I yelp in shock, looking up to see that Astordil had somehow managed to find her own way onto the roof and was looking down at me with an expression torn between irritation and concern. It made her look very constipated. At her side was another elf dude. Long dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes. Another generically pretty face I probably won’t memorize so I don’t bother to. New guy leans forward and grabs my other hand and together they haul me back up. Astordil immediately holds me close, with her arms like iron bars around my torso. I wiggle, just to test, and they clamp down even harder. Sighing, I wrap my arms around her neck to hang on and I can feel the tension in her shoulders relax a bit. Just a little bit. A miniscule amount.

Astordil carefully picks her way across the rooftop to a balcony with the new guy following right after her and doing that hands-out-to-catch thing dudes do sometimes. I very politely don’t wiggle around because I don’t want to unbalance her and die when I get squished between a rock and a hot person. She leaps with an unfair amount of grace from the roof to the balcony, ending in a superhero landing. Her joints creak as she stands and she huffs a sharp exhale. I wince. Astordil is cool, and I feel bad for stressing her out now.

I’ll learn ‘sorry’ from Erestor next to tell her. 

Astordil crosses through this random room (is that an honest to god tapestry?) and exits out into the hallway. There’s raised voices and we both look to see Erestor trying to shove someone out of the way as he hauls himself up another step. I’m appalled. He should be in bed! What the hell is he thinking, being up and about?

“Erestor!” I shout and the conversation ceases. A look of relief crosses his face and he sags against one of the people holding him up. I squirm in Astordil’s arms and she--very reluctantly--sets me down after some tall dude with dark hair and a silver circlet nods at her.

“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says--breathes, really, and shit he’s looking pale. I race over to his side, shoving my hand unceremoniously under his shirt to feel his wet bandages. He’s undoing all of my hard work, damn him! What the hell was he thinking, trying to climb the stairs like this when--

Oh.

Me.

I was causing trouble. So he came to check on me.

He was my responsibility when he was in my woods and now that I’m in his home, he’s responsible for me. And despite my previous resolution to stay, I reacted with pure, animal panic when I thought about being trapped with all these people who couldn’t stop looking at me and touching me without my permission and how overwhelmed I was by everything. 

And now Erestor has ripped open his wound to check on me.

The previous guilt I felt over causing Astordil inconvenience is like, a million times worse when this realization crashes over me. Oh no. Oh me no likey that feeling. I make a fist and rub it in small circles over my heart, saying ‘sorry’ in sign language and trying to convey that with my face. He doesn’t smile--he’s in too much pain to do that--but he does let himself sag fully against the person at his side. And literally out of nowhere, Bastard materializes to pick Erestor up in his arms bridal style, cradling Erestor like he’s something precious. I mean, totally correct interpretation of Erestor, but the instinct to kick Bastard in the shins is undeniable and the only thing that stops me is the fact he is carrying the man in question. Elf in question? What even is the difference with that?

Someone beside me speaks in a very smooth tenor voice. Wow. If voices could be alcohol, this dude would be the finest whiskey in the world. Just hearing him speak makes me feel warm and golden. It’s a little trippy.

I turn to see silver circlet elf-man kneeling next to me in his fancy robes (probably getting clam saliva all over his sleeves) and holding a hand out to me, palm open and facing up. He’s speaking, obviously, and I still cannot understand him, but I find myself listening anyways. He’s not using that cooing tone some of the other fucks used. He’s just. Speaking quietly. Low. To me. Not to a child, but to me. He finishes speaking, and just waits, hand offered.

I look hard at him, searching. 

His hair is black, tied back from his face in simple braids, and the silver circlet only enhances the pure shade. His eyes are the same silvery-grey as the girl in the room and weighty with something old. His skin is a warm-toned fawn, and while there are no deep wrinkles of old age, I can still see the creases of skin in his brow and around his mouth. He worries often, but he laughs just as much. It’s a regal face, but more importantly, it’s a good face. 

Vibe check? 

Passed.

I put my hand in his.

  
  


Silver circlet and nice robes guy--fuck, that’s too long to think, his name is Silvers now.

Anyways, Silvers leads me down the stairs, down a hallway, down another hallway, down another flight of stairs, down a-fucking-nother hallway, and through a breezeway until we reach a bedroom. It’s decorated the same as everything else here. That is: elegant, beautiful, other words from a thesaurus I don’t have. Unlike most of what I had seen that used pale wood, this room has a darker palette. The wood of the furniture is dark like pine tree bark, and the bedding and material are all in various shades of green and gold and ochre. It’s like being in the forest again, especially with all the leaves and flowers carved into everything. Tension I didn’t even notice I was carrying disappears. 

He leads me through another door. 

It’s…a bathroom. A nice bathroom. The room is mostly rectangular. There’s a large, arched, stained-glass window depicting a peacock that mostly obscures the outside view of the valley. The bathtub looks to be made of wood and it’s tucked against a wall where an honest to god faucet sticks out. The bathtub is already filled and there is literal, actual steam rising from the water. 

Hot water for a bath. 

My first ever since I came here. It’s enough to make a bitch cry. 

Well, not really.

Then Silvers pulls out a basket full of bath products and alright, a bitch definitely sniffles.

And then Silvers ruins it all by pulling up a stool and that’s when I cut him short. I make the ‘tss’ sound at him like you make at animals to get his attention before I grab his sleeve. He looks at me and then at my grip on his sleeve, blinking. I tug, pointing at him, then at the door, putting on my sternest face so he knows I mean business. He hesitates, but I ‘tss’ at him again and do the unmistakable shoo motion and, with extremely obvious reluctance, he goes. I shut the door firmly behind him, so he doesn’t get any funny ideas.

The basket is filled with lots of goopy shampoo-soap stuff in colored glass bottles but since I can’t what is for what, I just pick the one that smells the best--like honeysuckle and petrichor--and put that on the stool so I have easy access to it. There’s also terry cloth loofah looking things in the basket, so I put that on the stool as well.

Then I strip and dive right in. 

I bite back a yelp because FUCK THAT’S REALLY HOT but I adjust soon enough. I take a moment to just relax before I grab the soap and start scrubbing at my hair. I deliberately don’t look at water before pouring more soap onto the loofah and start to scrub five years of dirt from my skin. A snippet of a song drifts and I can’t help but sing it.

_ When you walk away _

_ You don't hear me say _

_ Please, oh baby, don't go _

_ Simple and clean is the way that you're making me feel tonight _

_ It's hard to let it go _

Simple and clean. Because I’m bathing. I’m hilarious and it sucks that no one here understands me because that is a quality pun. I don’t remember the full lyrics, but I do remember that chorus and the ending for it.

_ Hold me _

_ Whatever lies beyond this morning _

_ Is a little later on _

_ Regardless of warnings _

_ The future doesn't scare me at all _

_ Nothing's like before _

Yeah, ain’t that the motherfucking truth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this bc work is going to suck ass this week and i need positive feedback
> 
> check out the fucking aesthetic pinterest board i made for Cyr: https://pin.it/5G8Je9t  
> it's organized by color so y'all better appreciate it
> 
> Song: Simple and Clean by Utada Hikaru, specifically from timestamp 3:03 to 3:46  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1nDzB1P8GM
> 
> also i have not forgotten about Jason, calm all y'all's titties. will be posting companion piece from Erestor's POV soon, maybe. depends on how much work kicks my ass. and ty for the kudos and reviews. i love u for it, even if i question your taste for reading something like this, which is more reminiscent of a clown car crash rather than a fic


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CARBS. Embarrassing myself. I'm sorry, your name was what again? Realizations. Angst, for funsies. Someone else singing for fucking once. As always, back to Erestor.

Only after the water has gone cold and my skin is practically sandpapered off that I finally deign to get out of the tub. A large cloth serves as the towel, and I have a delightful time styling it as a toga before I realize that I can’t postpone leaving the bathroom any longer. I cautiously open the bathroom door--just a crack--peeking out and then sighing in relief when I see Astordil, who’s leaning against a wall and checking her nails like this is some cliche book and the author couldn’t figure out what to make her do or something. 

I nearly step out into the room when the door to the entrance of the room opens and the girl whose room I sprinted through appears. She’s in a flowing dress of silvery gray with an empire waistline and stupid long sleeves. Her insanely long dark hair is held back with elaborate braids. In her hands, she carries a basket.

Astordil stands to attention when she enters, doing a little waist bow with her right hand over her heart. Ooh, formal. A right proper lady this is then. The Lady gives Astordil the basket and then starts to speak with her hand in the basket, presumably pointing out things. Astordil is nodding along but at one point The Lady says something that makes Astordil roll her eyes and I can’t help but snicker at that. 

Both of them pause.

Aw shit.

They both turn to look at me and I’m torn between wanting to shrink away from the door and wanting to keep an eye on them. Before I can decide, The Lady surprises me but getting down onto her knees and then shifting to sit with her legs crossed. A quiet murmur and Astordil hands the basket over. The Lady reaches into it and pulls out a roll of bread.

Like, actual bread.

Oh my god. 

_Carbs._

Cautiously, I crack open the door further, with my gaze dashing between The Lady, the bread, Astordil, and the door like a fucking pinball machine. The Lady and Astordil hold perfectly still as I make my way over, slowing when The Lady holds out the bread as far away from her body as she can. I pause, then I lash out and take it. I rip it open and bury my face in the delicious smell of yeast and carbohydrates.

Come to mama.

I don’t hesitate to eat most of the bread, pausing only when The Lady takes out a hunk of cheese just to snatch that and eat it too. Rude, I know, but in my defense, I haven’t had bread or cheese for years. I wasn’t able to get anything from Jason that didn’t spoi--

Holy fuck. Jason.

“Astordil,” I say, looking up at her. Then I realize I don’t know the word for sheep and I want to curse. Fuck. What now? I lift my bread-less and cheese-less hands to sign...nothing, because I don’t know the sign for sheep. 

An idea strikes.

Something embarrassing again but fuck. Jason.

I can’t leave Jason behind.

“Astordil, baa baa,” I say, feeling a blush begin to stain my cheeks. “Baa!” Astordil looks confused. Same, girl. “Baa!” I say again, helplessly. Then: “Caw!” I flap my arms to mimic wings and then I put my hands up by my ears to mimic something that looks more like bunny ears but what I’m hoping gives the vibe of floppy sheep ears. “Baa!”

Realization is growing on her face. Thank god. She speaks to The Lady and The Lady nods. Astordil leaves and I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake, because now I’m alone with a stranger. The Lady realizes this at the same time as I do and she very obligingly doesn’t move, except to pull out another piece of bread. I expect her to hand it over immediately, but she digs out a ceramic jar of the basket. Taking the lid off, she dips the bread into the pot and it comes out drenched in some dark purple mash?

Wait, is that jam?

I creep closer, knowing The Lady is letting me and I grab her wrist holding onto the jar, tilting it towards me so I can smell it. Oh, yeah, that’s definitely jam. It just smells fruity and sweet, but from the color I’m guessing blackberry. The Lady holds the piece of bread out to me and I release my hold on her wrist to take it. I lick the jam first and yes, definitely blackberry. Taste confirmed, I tear into it, taking care not to smear jam across my newly washed face.

Licking the sticky sweetness from my fingers, I wipe my hand off on my toga before cutting out the middleman by going for the basket itself. There’s a bunch of grapes, a few links of some dried sausage, more of that honey shortbread, and a flask. I open the flask and sniff, coming up with nothing. I tip a bit into my mouth and yup, its water. Cold and crisp and clear and wow, it’s gone. Shit. I didn’t realize I was that thirsty. I munch my way through the dried sausage and the grapes, alternating between savory and sweet as The Lady watches me with something like fascination.

“Cýrlinnaril,” The Lady says. I look at her, mid-chew after an ambitious attempt at trying to chew both a sausage and two grapes. She smiles, which I want to feel offended by but also, I get it. She places a hand on her chest. “Im Arwen. Mae g'ovannen.”

For a second I think she’s mispronounced “I’m” but the name Arwen does ring clanging alarm bells in my head.

I can only blink dumbly at her because she looks nothing like Liv Tyler.

Or wait, maybe she does. I squint. It doesn’t help. Maybe they have similar face shapes or something, but it’s hard to tell because this Arwen looks pretty damn young. Liv Tyler Arwen clocked a solid and respectable mid thirties in the movie, from what I can remember, but this Arwen looks like she’d barely be let into a bar. 

After the pause has gone on long enough that it feels awkward, I speak. “Arwen,” I say, pointing at her. “Cýrlinnaril.” I point at me. Hm. I wonder if…

“Im Cýrlinnaril?” I try and Arwen nods, smiling so brightly I feel the need to shade my eyes.

She says something else, carefully enunciating each word as she stands. I watch from my seat on the floor as she goes to the wardrobe--Narnia vibes from that, to be honest--and pulls out another basket. From that basket is, unfortunately, not food but clothes. I’m wary about undressing in front of Arwen, but this towel toga is getting pretty cold. Arwen hands over some...bike shorts looking thing first. Is this...underwear? This shit? I need to introduce these people to bikini style, asap. Arwen politely averts her eyes as I put those on and keeps her eyes averted as I put on the more or less shapeless undershirt. She pulls out a dress that’s a rust red color, woven through with strands of gold. It looks like a freshly fallen leaf and I’m so in awe of how pretty the color is that I don’t protest when she slips it over my head. The fabric of everything is sinfully soft. Like, silk and cotton had a baby or some shit. The dress itself only came down to my mid-calf, giving me freedom of movement, while the sleeves that came down to the wrist--the fabric was loose around my shoulders and upper arms, but tightened around my forearms and wrist. A batwing, I think I remember it being called?

Arwen’s hand on my back guides me to the vanity on the far wall of the room, an indignity I allow because I’m too busy tracing the embroidery around my wrist, little outlines of maple leaves in a dark red and beech in a cheerful yellow. The detail is freaking insane. For kids clothes? Kids? Who’s dumb idea was this when they saw me literally not two hours ago jumping from a building to a tree, and from a tree to a rooftop? I’m questioning the intelligence of everyone here. Except Erestor. Wait, he tried to climb stairs despite a gaping wound in his gut. Moron. Okay, except Astordil then.

Arwen pats the vanity chair before picking up a hairbrush and I have a moment of intense debate with myself. Submit to the mortifying ordeal of having my hair brushed, or make a run for it? She smiles at me and the decision is made. I climb onto the seat.

And then nearly fall off of it because MIRROR.

The first thing I notice is the colors.

After five years of not seeing what I looked like, this knocked the breath out of me. I stand on the seat, leaning in closer to get a more focussed look at myself. I knew my hair was white and I knew my skin was coppery tan but combination as a whole is very striking. This close, I can see a faint sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of my nose. My brows are dark. Isn’t that funny? White hair, dark brows? Dark lashes too. My eyes are fascinating and unnerving. I hesitate to say gold, but they’re definitely NOT brown. Honey colored, maybe? Something just this side of not human.

Oh.

Speaking of.

ELF EARS?

FUCKING ELF EARS??

I’M A FUCKING ELF???

I can’t help the little strangled squeal that emerges from my mouth, sounding more like a tea kettle than anything else as I reach up and grab my ears. Yes, there’s a point, clear as day. How did I not notice? How was I this dumb? This dense?

I WAS JUST IN THE BATH WASHING MY HAIR AND I DIDN’T NOTICE???

What sort of dense motherfucker do I have to be to not notice I’m a literal elf?

I think of my improved senses, my unlikely survival, way my voice carried notes with much more skill and talent than I knew I had ever possessed before then, the times I nearly communed with animals. 

Like a Disney princess, I joked once to Corvo, and how horrifically close I was. 

I’m a fictional being. I’m a literal, fictional, totally made up thing. 

God. How did I not know?

No wonder Erestor tolerated me doing so much shit to him.

No wonder Bastard chased me over hill and dale.

No wonder these guys were so pushy about me coming to Rivendell.

Fuck.

I want to be angry at them or something. Angry that they didn’t tell me. Angry that they wanted to take care of an elf child, and not me. That they wanted an elfling instead of whatever body snatcher I was. 

The anger rises like a tsunami, and breaks on me. It washes everything away, even itself, and leaves only exhaustion and disappointment behind. In who? I don’t know. Everyone maybe? Myself especially? 

Fuck, I’m so fucking tired. 

I shrug out of Arwen’s concerned grip--has she been talking this whole time?--and avoid looking at the concerned look on her face as I head directly towards the bed, stripping out of the nicely embroidered dress as I go, and diving under the covers. I grab all of the blankets and cocoon myself, ignoring Arwen as she murmurs something undoubtedly soothing. I curl into fetal position, clutching the fabric tight and taking in slow, controlled breathes instead of hyperventilating like I want to. I feel the bed dip as Arwen sits on the edge of the mattress. There’s a moment of nothing, and then she starts rubbing my back, humming softly under her breath.

_Fanuilos heryn aglar_

_Rîn athar annún-aearath_

_Calad ammen i reniar_

_Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath!_

A song. A song so familiar it aches. I know that melody. I know those words. I can hear the chorus that is absent here.

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

_I chîn a thûl lin míriel_

_Fanuilos le linnathon_

_Ne ndor haer thar i aearon_

A world tinged in blue and silver. Lanterns held aloft on poles and by weary hands. A woman upon a white horse, a star resting on her breastbone that flickers in and out of existence, as if it’s not truly there.

_A elin na gaim eglerib_

_Ned în ben-anor trerennin_

_Si silivrin ne pherth 'waewib_

_Cenim lyth thílyn thuiennin_

Yes, I know this song.

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

_Men echenim sí derthiel_

_Ne chaered hen nu 'aladhath_

_Ngilith or annún-aearath_

  
  


I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake, Arwen is gone although the song still echoes in my head. I push my way out of the sheets, suddenly too hot and claustrophobic. Through the window of the room, moonlight pours in like liquid, saturating the room and pushing back the dark. It is bright, but I don’t like this isolation. I can’t hear a thing besides the rushing of water. No chirp of accidentally awake birds, no crickets with song, no Jason softly huffing away in sleep. 

The autumnal dress is in the wardrobe again and I slip it on before exiting through the door. There’s someone right outside the door, who’s sudden appearance scares the shit out of me before I realize they’re dead asleep. Bro is completely out of it. I hope this isn’t a guard shift because otherwise his ass is getting beaten come morning, because I’m not returning to that room until I find Erestor. 

As I walk through the halls of Rivendell, I realize it’s not as quiet as I originally thought. The water is constantly there, but if I strain my (elf) ears (fuck), I can hear far away talking, perhaps the strains of some imagined song. I can smell a fire, large enough it’s probably a bonfire, and cooking food. I can see bobbing fireflies and the flicker of flame every so often in windows. Quiet, this place, but still bustling even in the dead of night. 

I retrace my steps back to where my first frantic race happened, sticking close to shadows to avoid patrols of two or three soldiers that pass through the halls. I wonder if I’m good at hiding or if they’re just shit at their jobs. Or perhaps they’re letting me pass. Impossible to tell, really.

Either way, no one stops me on my quest to find Erestor, so all’s well that ends well.

  
  


I follow impulse, or instinct, to seek Erestor out, and it leads me true as it always has these past few years. I wonder if that’s an elf thing too. 

Snorting to myself as I climb in through the window of his room, I land in a crouch and pause before I creep over, casting frequent glances at the door. The infirmary is well guarded, even in the pale half hour before dawn, hence my entrance from the window. I know they’d remove me, but I don’t want to be alone. Corvo and Morrigan are off somewhere and Jason’s not here, so Erestor will have to do. Besides, I’ve rather gotten used to him over the past week. Perhaps even, dare I say, fond of the disaster man who was so desperate to find me that he nearly ripped open his gut wound several times. That has to be an example of a level two friendship at the very least. 

Creepy of me, I admit, but I take a moment to observe Erestor’s face. He looks a little pale, a little drawn. Since I don’t want to risk waking him, I don’t check his wound even though I desperately want to. Instead, I sit on the foot of his bed, resting in the right corner with my back braced against the footboard and my knees drawn up to my chest. Looking any more at him is creepy, so I turn my gaze to the window. I crept in from a garden with thick honeysuckle bushes, and the scent isn’t quite present but I can still smell the flowers on my skin from the bath, so it’s almost like the real thing. 

And there I sit, waiting for the dawn to come down to day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: spent like 30 min trying to figure out how to embed an image kmn
> 
> used a picrew to show what I had Cyr look like. the picrew used was: https://picrew.me/image_maker/41329
> 
> the song Arwen sings: The Passing of the Elves from the movie soundtrack  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CfRJSKk2Ls
> 
> will try to post mondays bc those days suck and hopefully a chapter update will cheer y'all up. will probably post Erestor POV companion fic on 12/10 or 12/11 so keep an eye out for that
> 
> as always, ty for your support


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor. The Bastard. Silvers feat. some hot bullshit. Toilets, part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to the lovely reader Lucky_Crickett WHO FUCKING DREW ART OF CYRLINNARIL CAN U FUCKING BELIEVE THIS SHIT I'M LITERALLY CRYING
> 
> https://asimpletinoforanges.tumblr.com/post/636957606532071424
> 
> from here on out if u draw an art, you'll get a dedicated chapter bc seeing people art makes me AFHKDLAFJDKL;JAFKAJ inside, u know? everyone say thanks to Lucky_Crickett who's been dedicated in this chapter and who motivated me to write this and remember to do the same next week to redjadeelric who's getting next week's chapter dedication.
> 
> THANK YOU AND I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!!!!!!

  
  
Erestor wakes slowly. That’s pretty typical of him, except this time I’m not waving a bowl of broth under his nose. He just wakes slowly. It’s pretty funny to watch him blink at the sun dazedly and then register the weird warmth against his foot and THEN look at me and yelp like a puppy. 

Since I’m an asshole, I do laugh as he chokes on that yelp and probably his gross morning saliva and begins to cough. 

I get off of the bed and grab his water cup from the side table--which I had stolen a few sips from--and help him lift his head so he can take a sip. He does, glaring at me the whole time. It’s pretty ineffective. I wiped your ass, dude, you have nothing on me.

“Cýrlinnaril,” he says in a tone that sounds like it’s going to be disapproving, doing one of those full-body sweeps to make sure I’m not injured like he had started doing back in the clearing. It’s also very funny to see him double take because I’m in a nice dress. Surprise, motherfucker. Just kidding, I’d never call him that to his face. He says something, in a faint tone that I can parse out as maybe admiring? I step back so he can get a better view of the dress and I give a spin.

“Arwen,” I say, holding out the skirt and doing a curtsy--the old courtly type where you put one leg far back and bend that back leg’s knee while keeping the front one straight so you can display your skirt onto the front leg. Much more elegant than the modern curtsy, especially if you have long skirts like I do now. As I rise from my joking bow, I can see Erestor looking a bit gobsmacked. Did I do it wrong? In my defense, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve done that. Faint memories of bodices and sunny days float up but nothing concrete.

“Im Cýrlinnaril,” I say. And what else did Arwen say? “Mae g'ovannen.” Hey, didn’t the Bastard also say that when he grabbed me by the oak tree? I still need to get my knife back from him dammit.

“Mae g'ovannen,” he says, smiling. “Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn.”

Oh Erestor, you bitch.

One upping a barely verbal kid, get fucked. I hate how fucking funny I find that move though. I’m not even insulted. This is why he’s my favorite. I take my seat on his bed again and then reach for a strand of my hair. I repeat the word for it. Then I point to my eye.

Erestor, the bright boy that he is, picks up my intention easily enough and I spend that morning learning more of this language.

  
  


An hour later I’m on the floor by Erestor’s bed, doing an Upward Dog yoga pose to stretch out my lower back and ignoring Erestor’s baffled look, when the door opens. Erestor, propped up onto pillows courtesy of me, looks over to the door that’s currently blocked from my vision.

“Glorfindel,” Erestor says, and I wonder who the fuck he’s talking to.

“Erestor,” the Bastard says. Huh. Funny to think that he has a name that isn’t “The Bastard”. Not that I’ll ever use it. I adjust into a Child pose. The Bastard says something else, sounding like a morose teenager on the verge of tears. Whatever he says makes Erestor make a weird noise. I look up to see him lay a hand on his side and I frown. If the Bastard hurt him somehow, I was going to shank the bitch. Bastard. Whatever.

Erestor turns his head away, as if looking out the window. I can see his eyes flicker to me and he winks. Then he shoots a half glance at where the Bastard’s voice is coming from. I don’t get it for a moment, and then I do.

Oh! Evil Erestor! He is so totally my favorite. 

I smile and slowly fix my position, so I’m in a leap frog sort of hunch. Erestor says something and I wait. The Bastard says something back and that’s when I pop up from my position on the ground. 

“Boo!” I shout, unable to help myself. The Bastard literally jumps when I do, a strangled yelp emerging from him, and I immediately begin cackling, hearing Erestor’s own light chuckle. The Bastard literally jumps at jump scares? I know what I’m going to be doing if I’m spending winter here. Although he does carry a sword, so maybe not. I’ll have to think about something else to avoid decapitation. Ah, well, I am creative.

“Ai!” the Bastard cries and then he laughs and that’s a patently unfair sound. He sounds the same way sunshine feels and I want to revel in it and then I want to slap that laugh out of his mouth because that is a weird fucking feeling to feel.

I guess the Bastard isn’t too bad, if he can make Erestor laugh and takes practical jokes so well. Although I still haven’t forgiven him for snatching me and I’m sure as hell not going to forget--HE HAS MY KNIFE!

I stand up and point at the Bastard, making a ‘pspsps’ sound at him. He pauses in his laughter. I turn to Erestor. I make a stabbing motion at him and then point to the Bastard. I get a vaguely confused look. I switch gears and mime chopping motion instead, using one hand as a board and the other as the knife. Erestor narrows his eyes and then says something aloud that the Bastard answers. Then the Bastard is pulling out my knife from his belt and I make a ‘come here’ motion, to the delight of Erestor who doesn’t even bother smothering laughter. The Bastard hands me my knife back, saying something to Erestor, but I don’t care about that. I shoo him away again and it’s nice that he actually backs up, which I honestly didn’t expect. I take my blade out of its new sheath--what was wrong with the other one?--and inspect it. It looks like the blade has been sharpened and polished, and the carved grip that had been worn away by constant use has been retouched. 

I thumb the blade edge, considering plucking a hair to test how sharp the blade is when Erestor suddenly shouts. I look over to see him looking at the knife in my hand and where my finger is pressed against the edge. Oh, that needs no translation. He’s telling me no. To be sure, I sign ‘no’ at him and he nods. I sign ‘yes’ and he translates that for me. I hum to show I understand and then I thumb the blade again, making direct eye contact. Erestor rolls his eyes but honestly, what did he expect? We spent a week together in a forest and he had no complaints about how I handled my knife before. Weirdo.

Oh wait.

I hold up the knife and point at it, pointedly. Erestor sighs, but provides me the word for it. Neat. Then he gestures the Bastard forward. I wrinkle my nose, but since Erestor is allowing it, I don’t protest. The Bastard now at Erestor’s bedside, he stands awkwardly as Erestor begins to teach me what parts of armor and clothes are in Elvish. 

  
  


The realization that I have to poop hits me during Erestor’s endeavor to teach me abstract concepts. 

Now, at home, whenever that happened, I would just go to one of my pre-dug poop holes that were literally right next to a tree and let one go. Wipe with pre-washed moss that I would grab from my hut before embarking and then drop that in too. Bury with dirt and done. Shitting done as clean and sustainable as humanly (elf-ly? God, I’m still not over the fact I’m a fucking elf of all things) possible when one was a child living alone in the woods. 

I think I did pretty okay for myself. I didn’t contaminate any nearby water sources, nor any groundwater sources. I knew fecal matter was good for plant growth but was bad for eating plants, so I made sure the trees got some benefit, and considering how often I chopped away at them, they deserved it.

For some reason--cough, the obsession with clean lines and minimalism here--I doubted that method would fly here.

The trouble was I had no idea where to begin to find a bathroom. 

The Bastard left an hour ago so I couldn’t even ask for his helmet to borrow, damnit. Also, I’m getting hungry. 

“Cýrlinnaril?” Erestor has noticed my lack of attention. I blink and then immediately decide I’m not going to lower myself by doing a potty dance. Fuck that noise. Instead I put both hands on my lower stomach. Erestor gets it instantly. “Door,” he says and I go over to the door. I open it to find a hallway but with distinct talking noise coming from the right and not as much coming from the left. I look over to Erestor and point left or right. He points right. I nod and then wave.

“Bye!” I slur the proper word for goodbye just to see Erestor’s unimpressed face. I head down to the right, passing through the pearl-dusted halls to come to a large room, facing southward with the light of the sun shining through in the morning sun. There’s a group of people--elves, obviously--sitting on benches and listening to someone standing and talking at the front of the room. 

Oh! The standing person is Silvers!

I momentarily set aside my need for a hole--wow, that’d be a hilarious joke if I was an adult penis-haver--in order to creep into the room to listen a bit to Silvers’ silvertongue. Or, what I assume is a silver tongue. Honestly, he sounds pretty lecture-y. I see someone in one of the back rows taking notes with a small stick in a small journal and I creep up behind them. I take a peek at the notebook, wanting a glimpse of the written Elvish, since I remember it looking so nice. And when I creep closer, unnoticed by those too busy hanging off of Silvers’ every word, I can see that it is. Very pretty.

And it looks stupid familiar.

To be clear, I can’t read it. 

But I recognize the symbols because I’ve seen them before. In my head. I remember seeing them when Erestor named me. I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that if I took up a pen right now and wrote my name, it would come out in perfect elvish script.

But the notes on this student’s journal? Incomprehensible.

Why the shit I can read my own name, but the rest of the language is inaccessible, both written and spoken? That doesn’t seem very efficient. Who designed this meat bag? I have complaints for the manager. Also, I have things to test immediately because I really, really need to see now if I can actually write my name, or if my gut actually does have shit for brains. 

I tap the shoulder of the person notetaking and then have to dodge as their elbow comes backwards at a frightening speed. They didn’t even look up from writing. Rude! I smack their arm, not even sorry when the little charcoal stick jolts and slides all the way across the page. The notetaker in question finally looks back, a snarl already on their face which freezes at the sight of me: a baby.

Yeah, asshole, what now? Gonna yell at a kid? Huh? That’s what I thought.

I point at the charcoal stick in their hand and they blink at me like a moron, whispering something under their breath in idiotic shock. The people around the notetaker look at them and then they look at me and then suddenly I realize how shit-awful this body’s childish impulses are. The elves are beginning to realize there’s a child and I’m beginning to regret everything, including being born. There’s an enthused shout from the right, but I can’t spot from who. Panic begins to trail it’s horrible fingers up my spine, but before it can grab a hold of my neck, Silvers steps in.

He appears out of nowhere, smiling down wryly on me and asking something I don’t understand but totally get the gist of. What the hell am I doing, interrupting his class?

Well, now my half-hearted plan to steal notetaker’s charcoal pencil to see if I can actually write my name is shot, but I can still achieve my original goal. 

I almost engage in the same shitty charades that I do with Erestor, but the audience prevents me from it. A moment of debate and instead, I grab Silvers’ hand, deciding to cart him over to Erestor so Erestor can just explain. Luckily for me, Silvers goes along with it, calling out something to the class as he lets me drag him on. 

Silvers lets me lead all the way to Erestor’s room. When I open the door, I’m able to catch a glimpse of Erestor’s surprised face as I drag Silvers in. Silvers greets Erestor by name and then Erestor says something back, yadda yadda.

I assume something gets sorted out because Silvers renews his grip on my hand and leads me out the door and to the right again. We pass the classroom, where the students still are but where they are mingling and chatting instead of sitting in straight rows and listening quietly. Silvers leads me to another door nearby, with a door handle that had a wooden placard hanging from it. Like, one of those ‘do not disturb’ signs in hotels. Except one side has one set of scribbles on it and the other side has a different set of scribbles on it. 

Is this--? No, it can’t be. Wise and ancient elves who’ve lived thousands of years would have surely come up with a better system than Ye Olde Port-A-Potty green-red, unoccupied-occupied system.

Then Silvers flips the card to one scribbled side and holy fuck, they don’t. They’re literally using a port-a-potty system, I literally can’t--

Silvers opens the door to reveal--

…

A gold toilet.

I shit you not. 

A literal gold toilet. 

Elves in Rivendell shit in gold toilets. 

I look at Silvers to double check that he’s seeing what I’m seeing because he has to see the irony of this. He has to. 

A gold toilet.

An honest-to-god, literal, actual gold toilet.

I take a step into the bathroom, noting that in the corner there’s a water basin also made out of gold and a bar of soap. The toilet itself is distantly familiar: low, shaped like an oval-ish bowl, small shelf nearby with some sort of thin cloth I think is meant to be toilet paper. The toilet has some sort of water tank and a pull chain thing, which doesn’t match the murky memories I have at all. Upon closer inspection, I notice that the toilet is not, in fact, gold and instead a shiny brass.

Over the not-really-gold toilet because now because I’m remembering to be shocked at the fact that Rivendell apparently has some sort of sewage system. Which I should have freaked out over yesterday given the bath, but I had forgotten in my joy of bathing.

A fucking toilet, I think, and then Silvers is stepping in to point at the toilet bowl and then pulls the handle. I almost wasn’t expecting it to work, but when it does, I jump, surprised. It actually flushes! Silvers politely doesn’t laugh at my reaction, but I can read the entertainment in his eyes. I glare and shove him out.

I do what I need to do and have the oddest feeling I should be playing a game of some sort right now.

After washing my hands with the helpfully provided bowl--flushing toilet but no sink? Rivendell, what even are you?--I step out to see Silvers waiting for me. Not sure how to feel about that. He asks a question. I tilt my head at him. He opens the door and points at the bowl and the soap. I nod. Did I wash my hands, he asks, as if I haven’t been dying to wash everything ever since I arrived here. Not that he would know that.

Silvers escorts me back to Erestor’s room, where he’s getting a check up from someone. That someone stands and bows respectfully when Silvers approaches, and Silvers takes over the dude’s job. Is Silvers the head doctor here? He seems to be very well respected. Silvers proclaims something and then Erestor answers and then Silvers turns to me, and pets my head with a few words I instantly know the meaning of, even if I don’t know the translation.

“Good job,” he says. I grin. Hell yeah I did a good job.

The door opens again which is making me think this place is too busy to be a proper hospital, but the person who comes through is a lady bearing a huge ass tray of food. I graciously forgive her as she sets up the tray over Erestor’s lap. I barely notice Silvers and Erestor exchange byes before Silvers leaves, since I’m too busy tasting everything on the tray.

The spread is delightful: warm bread, jam and honey, fresh fruit, what looks like porridge with meat in it, an array of cheese and more bread but a different smell and taste. It’s more than enough to feed two people, so I’m absolutely unapologetic about taking what I like. I make sure that Erestor eats the porridge and meat, since that’s the most nutritious, but I also make sure he gets down some bread too. Carbs are love, carbs are life.

I finish before Erestor, since he’s not used to hungry birds trying to pick food out of his hands if he eats too slow, and I curl up on the bed by his uninjured side while he eats slowly, like a good patient. Stomach full, the sun shining on me, with Erestor’s breathing next to me...

I was asleep before I knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that dumb little court bow Cyr does is an actual "this is how to bow to the highest levels of royalty" thing i had to learn in a class that i hated taking, but love having the knowledge for, bc i can sprinkle it into super self-indulgent fics like this
> 
> also according to movie canon, plumbing exists in middle earth. that's my justification. also i've already planned out Rivendell's waste and sewage system and i'm going to fit it in this fic if it kills me.
> 
> and yeah, this is the first of many mentions of toilets and sewage systems. i'm so sorry to the people who came here for family fluff. you're also going to get Way Too Much Worldbuilding


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arwen. Food and birds! First song in Rivendell, with fantastic acoustics. OH THANK FUCK THERE'S A LIBRARY I'M GONNA LEARN TO READ SO HARD--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to redjadeelric who drew Cyr's dress!!!!! like!!!! took the image from my fucking mind and pasted it on paper!!!!!
> 
> https://bluefirebutterfly.tumblr.com/post/637161807244558336/i-was-inspired-by-a-description-of-a

The quiet murmur of voices wakes me. I shift out of sleep like Erestor: molasses-slow and willing to dive back into dreams at the drop of a hat. I become aware of the warmth of the sun on my body and a large hand rubbing up and down my back. Since I know it’s Erestor, I don’t mind it and I curl even closer to his hip where I’m curled up in the fetal position. There’s a soft noise--a hum? A coo? Whatever it is, it’s not Erestor’s voice--and I reluctantly open my eyes, already wincing at the sunlight I know is about to hit my face.

Except it doesn’t.

Because Erestor is holding up a hand to block the sun from my eyes. Did he really hold his hand up for who knows how long, just to block some sun from my eyes? Something warm-ish bubbles up in my chest. Acid reflux? Certainly can’t be that affection feeling I’ve not-heard about. Ugh, gross. This is what I get for picking up strays. I’m too fucking tender hearted for my own good.

Erestor looks down at me, noticing my awakened state, and smiles.

More sunshine warmth.

EW.

So cliche. I’d make a gagging noise but I’m so warm and comfy right now that I don’t even bother.

He says something, which I’m guessing is something along the lines of “good morning” because Erestor is totally the asshole who mocks people who sleep in, despite being someone who sleeps in all the time too.

“Good morning, Erestor,” I say back.

“Good job,” he says and I smile at him.

“Good morning, Cýrlinnaril.” Oh, I know that voice! I look over my shoulder to see Arwen, sitting on a chair next to Erestor’s bedside--when did that get there?--and holding yet another basket. I sign ‘food’ at her and Erestor, who sees that, translates the word.

“Arwen, food?” I ask.

Erestor corrects my grammar, I assume.

“Arwen, is that food?” I try again, barely mustering the will to not roll my eyes. I did say I wanted to learn the language.

“Yes, this is food,” Arwen says back, which I know because she shows me the little bread rolls. I look to Erestor to provide vocabulary.

“May I please have some food?” I ask, mimicking what I can of Erestor’s slowly enunciated words. I don’t know the exact translations, of course, but I remember how tones work and it’s not that hard to deduce meaning when the subject is right fucking there. 

“Yes, you may,” Arwen says, which I understand without Erestor. She hands me a round croissant looking thing. I sniff it. It smells like yeast and apples and spices. I bite and it’s flaky like a croissant wrapped with some sort of apple filing. It’s fucking delicious. As much as I want to gobble it down, I pause to tear a bit off, with a good amount of bread and filling, and I offer it up to Erestor. He has to eat this, since it’s so good. Erestor obliging takes a bite and I snicker at how his cheeks puff out as he chews the huge morsel. I hesitate before I rip off another piece for Arwen, unsure if she’d be okay with it, but she honestly looks a little TOO delighted to take my offered piece to eat. She doesn’t eat from my fingers like I (sort of) made Erestor do, but she eats with her hands instead of using the plates and forks I can see also in her basket.

We make our way through one little loaf, with me taking a bite and then feeding Erestor and then feeding Arwen. And then we go through two more because that’s how it’s done. The next time I grab three buns and hand one to Erestor and one to Arwen because I’m done feeding them and they’re grown ass adults. With the third bun, I go over to the windowsill and climb on top of it, to Erestor and Arwen’s complaints. I hold up an index finger to indicate for them to wait while I hop out into the garden. 

I passed it last night while it was dark, but now in the light of day I can see what I thought was just a weird garden, lined with a few honeysuckle bushes I saw and smelled the other night, was actually an herb garden. And no, not those kinds of herbs, unfortunately. Anyways, I make sure to sniff some rosemary for funsies while walking to the side of the garden before I begin to whistle the first notes to Somewhere Over the Rainbow, ripping up the bread in my hands into beak-sized pieces. There’s a throaty caw not long after and yup, here come Corvo and Morrigan. Lured by the tune I normally whistle for them, or by the sight of food, we’ll never know.

They give perfunctory bows and I scatter the pieces of bread on the ground for them to scurry after. My hands are too sticky to pet them, so I make do with leaning over to give them little kisses on their heads when they’re standing still to grab another piece of bread to choke down. 

As I go back to Erestor’s room, I pick a few sprigs of lavender on the way back so that Erestor can have something nice and calming to smell while he rests. Arwen is at the window, looking at Corvo and Morrigan as if mystified. Or jealous.

Is Arwen jealous of my attempted murder?

Fuck, I’m hilarious.

Anyways, I push my way inside and give Erestor the sprigs of lavender before leaving the room to go to the Ye Olde Port-A-Potty again to wash my hands. Arwen is outside by the time I come out, looking a little harried. She takes me by the hand to lead me back to Erestor and I’m offended for a moment before I realize she’s probably supposed to be my babysitter while Erestor’s down for the count and that my history of randomly disappearing in Rivendell has not had the most stellar track record so far.

That’s fair.

I gamely allow myself to be led back to Erestor’s room--without a fight!--and listen closely to their conversation. Something something Cýrlinnaril something something. Fuck, I need to get my hands on some dictionaries, this is high key bullshit. 

“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says and my gaze snaps to him. “Go with Arwen.”

Again, deduced from context clues and the fact that Arwen takes my hand--again--and leads me away.

  
  


I have no idea where we’re going, but I’m silent as Arwen walks with me through Rivendell. It’s a pretty place and I’m honestly glad I get the chance to rubber-neck a little as Arwen leads ever onwards.

We pass a stairwell and I pause. Her hand nearly slips out of mine before she realizes and she pauses too. I point and she tells me the word for stairs, says something else, but even if I wanted to pay attention, I wouldn’t. I’m already pulling my hand from her and walking to the stairwell. Since I’m a polite child and not prone at all to running around like a hellcat, I make sure she can keep pace with me. I take my time investigating: looking up at it, climbing a few steps, stomping to hear the echo.

The first time I test a note, I see Arwen jolt in shock. It’s a middle C, dude, chill. It’s not going to hurt you. I run through a scale, pleased to hear it echo with the fantastic acoustics. I go out to check the hallway again, seeing it completely empty. Good. I’m okay with singing for one or two, but more than that is a hard no. Arwen is the unlucky audience for today, I guess. Jeez, what should I sing for the first time in Rivendell? Difficult choice.

Wait.

I got it.

Before I start, I let my eyes slip close. Mostly so that I can focus on the way my voice echoes and reverberates, but also because I don’t really want to see Arwen’s reaction. Not sure what it would be, but I know that it would distract me and this song doesn’t deserve that.

I sing.

_ Home is behind _

_ The world ahead _

_ And there are many paths to tread _

_ Through shadow  _

_ To the edge of night _

_ Until the stars are alight _

_ Mist and shadow _

_ Cloud and shade _

_ All shall fade _

_ All shall fade _

As I finish, I open my eyes to find Arwen looking at me like she can’t decide between being delighted or being shocked. She’s settled on both in an expression that looks slightly manic. Woof. This is why Erestor is the superior audience. 

Wanting to wipe that expression off of her face, I go back into the hallway and hold my hand up, obviously prompting her to take my hand and lead on. She follows after me at a decidedly more sedate pace, but luckily by the time she arrives, her smile has lost that manic edge. She says something, and I recognize a few words.

Something something something song, Cýrlinnaril.

That was a beautiful song, Cýrlinnaril? Maybe? I hope so. That song is always hauntingly gorgeous. She has good taste. 

After another moment of leaving me hanging, Arwen finally takes my hand and leads me onwards.

  
  


A scene flickers through my head: an animated movie scene depicting a two story library in shades of marble white and embellished gold and draped green. I don’t remember the context of it, but I remember being in love with that scene, desiring it more than anything.

Rivendell’s library looks nothing like that, but I feel that all consuming love once again.

“Library,” Arwen tells me.

“Library,” I repeat with a reverence normally reserved for gods.

The library is only one story, but makes up in sprawl what it lacks in height. Rather than white marble, everything is made of dark mahogany, with the ceiling carved within an inch of its life with a repeating pattern of six pointed stars set in a six petaled flower. The entire south facing wall is glass paned windows, with blue curtains hung by every other one that are now tied back to let light in. A good choice, since that means less candles and smoke in the library. I decide that I want to live and breathe and die in this room, but then I remember I can’t fucking read and that realization crushes me so utterly that I don’t protest when Arwen drags me further in. 

Someone with dark hair and a solemn demeanor--and that could literally be over half the people in this place, so why do I even bother noting this stuff?--stops her to chat. Whoever it is looks over me curiously, but says nothing to me before moving on. 

Ain’t it wild how much I enjoyed being ignored? 

Arwen leads me to a small section in the far corner of the library, where she begins to pick out a few books. I slip away to reverently open one, cradling the book gently as to not get my hand oils onto the page. With only one glance around to make sure no one is looking right at me, I shove my nose into the pages and sniff like it’s a line of coke.

Fuck.

Yes.

Fuck me up. That’s the good shit. Choice stuff. Would pay twenty for a gram. 

I spend half a moment wondering how I can remember those terms and jokes like that when I can’t remember my own name, before I shrug and decide not to care. Erestor’s given me a name now, and dwelling on what I would never know is not going to help me now. I look over at Arwen to see that she’s grabbed a few slim books that she’s cradling in the crook of her arm. She looks around and when spotting me, comes over. She speaks, probably asking me about the book I picked up, if I’m guessing right from her tone and the way her eyes flicker to the title. A brilliant idea occurs to me. 

“Erestor,” I tell her and tuck the book under my own arm. He’d be bored sitting in bed and healing, so he’d appreciate reading material. I have no idea what this thing is about, but Erestor seems like the bookish type. I don’t think I’d vibe with someone who wasn’t. Hopefully I didn’t pick out BDSM porn or anything. That’d be awkward. It would be funny as fuck though. Shit, now I’m torn. I actually kind of hope it’s smut because that would be hilarious. Arwen didn’t react to the title so it probably isn’t, but there’s still a chance!

“Good job,” Arwen says, smiling at me. She takes my hand again and we go find that librarian elf and--presumably--we check out the books. 

Then we head back to Erestor’s room. We pass a few other elves and they stare at me with either surprised expressions or dopey smiles and I am once again reminded that everyone’s obsessive interest in me is because I’M A FUCKING ELF CHILD WHAT THE FRESH FUCK--

We’re cool though, we’re cool. 

One freak out was more than enough for me and I hate going through those so we’re just going to suppress that shit. Bottle it up, store that shit like fine wine, and use it as a Molotov cocktail later, that’s my motto.

Wait, do they have Molotov cocktails here?

Ooh.

By the time we get back to Erestor’s room, I’m ready to curl under the blankets with him--on one hand, being overwhelmed by the walking, the talking, the staring, and the mind-bending realizations being re-lived and on the other hand trying to figure out how I’d be able to make a Molotov cocktail here. Just for funsies. Arwen is a bro who leads me back to the bed and immediately lifts me into it. Real queen shit. 

Also, damn, does she lift?

Anyways, she also does some sleight of hand shit and takes the book I was holding and puts it on the bedside table. She forcibly tucks me into Erestor’s non-injured side and puts one of her slim books in his lap. Erestor thanks her and opens up…

A children’s picture book.

UGH.

But I can acknowledge to myself that this is the best way to learn so I settle against Erestor’s side and learn more elvish words, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends :)
> 
> see that tag that said i was bullied into posting this by a friend? WELL GUESS WHO BULLIED BACK???? ME!!!!!! SWEET FUCKING REVENGE
> 
> anyways, check out my friend's MGiME fic!!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/28207137
> 
> it's called 'List of Things I'm (Not) Handling Well' by my good friend elladora and pls help me GENTLY, KINDLY, AND POLITELY convince her to post more of her wonderful writing and world building. It has a POC MC who's treating the elves warily instead of falling to her knees in worship which is pretty damn cool of her if I do say so myself.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bastard. Astordil is a snitch. JASON. And a poem and a crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Nekomiko who made me fucking cry with how beautiful her art is!!!!!! Do i have this now as my homescreen on my phone? Yes. do i cry every time i see it? Bitch maybe
> 
> https://twitter.com/crowbirdart/status/1338568287970598912?s=21

I spent the night with Erestor, since in the middle of him reading from the book I had gotten him, I ended up falling asleep like some sort of baby. 

Pathetic.

Anyways, we’re woken with breakfast brought to the bed by Arwen again and we eat quiche. Fucking quiche. Oh my god. Carbs and cheese and eggs and meat. I’m going to cry. I eat half of it on my own. Erestor gets more porridge. Damn, would hate to be that guy. I still give him a couple bites of quiche though, because no one deserves not to eat quiche except for like, axe-murderers and others like that. Arwen leaves before noon and says something about more food, which I hope means she’ll be back with lunch.

Again, Erestor reads to me and we get to the point where he’s trying to explain the concept of ‘is’ because he thinks I’m confused but I’m really just trying to get him to explain what ‘be’ is when the Bastard walks in.

He’s less bulky, is the first thing I notice. Unlike the metal armor he was wearing before, he’s replaced it with leather armor instead and that is only the bare minimum. He’s still hella tall and well built, but less monstrously so than I remember.

He’s also incredibly dirty. What I sincerely hope is soil and dirt is smeared all over his limbs and torso, as if he’s been diving into mud. It’s streaked on the exposed skin of his face and hands and the dark spots make his bioluminescence even more stark. I frown, looking between him and Erestor. Are elves...naturally bioluminescent? Now that I’m looking closer, I can see that Erestor’s skin is a little glowy, albeit not the glowstick level the Bastard is at. How did I not notice that before? Did his injury make his body stop the slight glowy-ness? 

Neither Arwen nor Silvers nor Astordil were glowy, so what makes Erestor and the Bastard different? Are there different breeds of elves? I check my skin super quick, but nope, not glowy. Thank god. While that should have been an obvious thing, I did somehow miss the fact I was an elf for five years, so I wouldn’t put it past me.

“Glorfindel has--” something something “--Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says. I give him a look because who the fuck in Glorfindel--oh right. 

I look at the Bastard and, to be dead honest, he looks more like Goldilocks, with all that long blond hair going all over the place. There’s been an attempt to braid it back--kind of like it was when I first saw him--but the hair has since escaped and is curling sort of wildly about. 

“Go with Glorfindel,” Erestor says and I give him another dubious look.

“Go with Glorfindel?” I repeat and Erestor nods, ruffling my hair and saying ‘good job’ with such an affectionate way that it dumps serotonin directly into my bloodstream. Still, I resist. I don’t really hate the guy anymore, but I also have no desire to get friendly with him. Erestor and Astordil were cool. Arwen and Silvers were also chill. But Goldilocks here radiated golden retriever aura and not that I don’t like dogs, but I’m also not really about that life.

“Cýrlinnaril,” the Bastard says, getting my attention both from speaking and from the way he strides right up to the bed before kneeling down on one knee to get closer to my level. He says a word, enunciating it slowly. I give him a blank look. 

Bitch. I started learning this language three days ago. Do I look like I understand what you’re saying?

He pauses, obviously sensing the lack of communication going on and then thinks for a moment, asks Erestor a question, gets a response, and then nods. 

Then, to my immense horror, he puts his hands up to his ears, mimicking floppy sheep ears, and says: “Baa, baa!”

Oh my god.

Oh my fucking god.

I can feel the flush begin to overtake my face as I mentally slot Astordil into the ‘not cool’ category in my mind for TELLING THE BASTARD ABOUT WHEN I DIDN’T KNOW THE WORD FOR SHEEP WHEN TALKING ABOUT JASON.

Oh my god, I’m going to die of embarrassment.

The fact it was even witnessed by Astordil and Arwen was bad enough, but now the Bastard OBVIOUSLY knows about it. 

Oh fuck, he’s talking to Erestor.

Oh no ERESTOR KNOWS.

I could fry an egg on my face with how hot it’s getting and the flush only gets worse as Erestor’s light chuckle. I can’t help but cover my face, as if by blocking their sight from the red in my cheeks, we could ignore the fact I was blushing in the first place. The urge to run away rises in me along with the urge to kick the Bastard in the nads, but before I can act on that, I feel Erestor’s hand begin to pet through my hair, talking soothingly at me. From his tone, I get the vibe he’s not talking down, but rather, trying to reassure me of something.

“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says, lightly tugging my hands away from my face, before putting his hand on my chin to tilt my head towards him. “Baa is sheep.” he says, because the meaning is clear now.

“Baa is sheep,” I repeat morosely. “Sheep is Jason.”

“Jason is a sheep,” Erestor corrects. Funnily enough, his habit of correcting me makes me calm down. Now slightly more rational, I shift from being embarrassed about not knowing a language to being embarrassed that I was so visibly embarrassed.

Emotions. 

Fuck you.

However, if what the Bastard--who I do in fact still hate, apparently--is saying is true, then that means he got Jason for me. If Astordil told him of that incident three days ago, then that means he literally spent from last time I saw him, two days ago, until now hunting my sheep through the woods. 

That’s. 

Really nice.

Even after I tried to stab him? Super nice. 

Once more I feel guilty about hating him. God, couldn’t this asshole just stick to a single dimension and let me choose one emotion to assign to him in peace? Truly a bastard.

Nevertheless, I want to see if it really is Jason so I hop off the bed and grab my knife from where it’s been resting safely on Erestor’s bedside table and tuck it into my pocket, giving the Bastard a look to remind him to keep in line. Smiling at that like the weirdo he is, he stands and says goodbye to Erestor. He holds his hand out to me but at my look of disdain, he pulls it back with a chuckle and a thrown comment to Erestor that my disaster man smiles at. 

Fuck, I need to master this language soon.

  
  


Glorfindel leads me through the halls to the same entryway I first arrived here, where I led my merry chase around Rivendell from. And standing there is Astordil, looking just as dirty and worn as the Bastard, and more importantly--

“Jason!”

I run the rest of the way down the stairs to throw my arms around the sheep, who gives me a startled baa and jerks on the lead Astordil has her on. There’s a second of just a hug before I begin to pat her down for injuries, feeling for the fat around her ribs, and automatically carding through her coat to see where it’s at growth-wise.

If Astordil helped get Jason--and it looks like she did given the amount of dirt smeared over her--then I guess I can put her back into the ‘cool’ category. But she’s definitely on thin fucking ice for being a snitch. Nevertheless, I still owe them now.

“Thank you, Astordil, Glorfindel,” I tell them, because I’m polite.

“You’re welcome,” the Bastard says back, but Astordil just nods. As soon as the Bastard comes close, she shoves the lead into his hand and immediately leaves. Probably for a bath. See? That’s a woman who knows her priorities. How can I not respect that?

Unfortunately, that choice leaves me alone with the Bastard which is so not tubular.

Whatever. I need to bring Jason back to the room I’m staying in as soon as possible. I don’t know how long they’ll let me keep bunking with Erestor and I’m too used to having warm sheets to give it up now. Jason was my bed-mate before and she’ll suit me now. Even if Erestor is SLIGHTLY more cuddly. Oh, hey, maybe I could introduce them to each other. Erestor will like her, considering her wool is half of what kept his blood inside his body.

Plan set, I take the lead from Glorfindel and give it a tug. Jason resists. Typical. I turn to the Bastard.

“Food, please,” I say and hold a hand out to him. That’s been my favorite phrase so far--courtesy of Erestor--and whenever I say it in front of Arwen, food magically materializes in my hand. It’s great. The Bastard disappoints, however, as he pats his pockets with a growing sheepish expression.

Ha.

Sheepish.

I roll my eyes at him and then wrap the lead around my wrist. If the Bastard doesn’t have food for me to tempt Jason with then I’ll have to carry her myself. I’ve only managed to get her across my shoulders once or twice, so here’s to fucking hoping--

Wait.

I look at the Bastard again.

He’s a big shouldered dude. Tall. Looks like he lifts. I grab his hand--which he looks exceedingly excited about, the damn golden retriever--and I push him towards Jason. 

“Erestor,” I say. “Erestor.” And then I tug the lead and point to Erestor’s room. “Jason is a sheep. Erestor.” I don’t think I’m conveying my intention correctly but the repetition of Erestor’s name clues the Bastard in. He kneels and in one scooping motion, he has Jason up over his shoulders, her front hooves kept in one hand and her back hooves kept in another. 

Holy fuck.

I honestly didn’t think he’d be able to do it. 

With the lead now useless, I let it go to grab the hem of the Bastard’s tunic to lead him instead. He’d probably do something dumb if I didn’t. Maybe he should have a leash on instea--wait, no, ew, erase that thought. 

No thoughts of the Bastard and kinkiness. 

No thoughts. Head empty.

Oh god now it’s haunting me. Didn’t he smile when I spat on him?

OH GOD GO AWAY

“Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Years,” I say out loud, driving away my thoughts with my voice. The Bastard jolts at my words, confused, but I don’t look at him, I don’t think of him. I just remember and speak. 

_ “One: _

_ That is no country for old men. The young _

_ In one another's arms, birds in the trees, _

_ —Those dying generations—at their song, _

_ The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, _

_ Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long _

_ Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. _

_ Caught in that sensual music all neglect _

_ Monuments of unageing intellect _ . _ ” _

One stanza down. Three to go.

_ “Two: _

_ An aged man is but a paltry thing, _

_ A tattered coat upon a stick, unless _

_ Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing _

_ For every tatter in its mortal dress, _

_ Nor is there singing school but studying _

_ Monuments of its own magnificence; _

_ And therefore I have sailed the seas and come _

_ To the holy city of Byzantium _ . _ ” _

Do elves have holy cities, I wonder? What would they look like? Rivendell here is in tones of ash-tree pale, accented in green and ochre and gold. I remember Lothlorian through a dream-like haze as being silver and hoary-blue, like a moonstone diffused into an aura. 

Would their holy cities be like that?

_ “Three: _

_ O sages standing in God's holy fire _

_ As in the gold mosaic of a wall, _

_ Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, _

_ And be the singing-masters of my soul. _

_ Consume my heart away; sick with desire _

_ And fastened to a dying animal _

_ It knows not what it is; and gather me _

_ Into the artifice of eternity.” _

This world has a god, doesn’t it? A capital-g-God. If He exists, I wonder what he thinks. About potential holy cities, or sages, or lost souls like me. Hey, if there is a capital-g-God, then what does it mean that I’m here? Did He do this to me? Or has He not noticed my infraction of an existence? 

If He hasn’t, then that’s a pretty shitty god. 

_ “Four: _

_ Once out of nature I shall never take _

_ My bodily form from any natural thing, _

_ But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make _

_ Of hammered gold and gold enamelling _

_ To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; _

_ Or set upon a golden bough to sing _

_ To lords and ladies of Byzantium _

_ Of what is past, or passing, or to come.” _

Neat hack to avoid thinking about someone’s hypothetical sex life: recite a poem and accidently throw yourself into a theological-philosophical-existential stew of general disquiet and dread.

Fucking nailed it.

“That was beautiful, Cýrlinnaril,” the Bastard says softly. At least, that’s what I assume he says. I recognize the word beautiful, because Arwen uses it a lot. Like, a lot. She’s said it at least a dozen times and I’ve only known her for like, two days.

“Thank you, Glorfindel,” I tell him, unsure of how to say ‘thanks, but also it’s not mine, I just memorized it from a long-dead poet from centuries ago, from a world that isn’t this one’. 

Ugh. 

Sounds like a mouthful anyways.

Anyways, we’re back at Erestor’s door and I eagerly throw it open. I ignore how Silvers is there, sitting with Erestor with a whole bunch of papers spread over Erestor’s bed, and dragging the Bastard in.

“Erestor,” I say. “Jason is a sheep.” I point at Jason. “Good job.” Because she did do a good job, keeping me alive and warm all those years. “Good sheep. Nice to meet you.” 

Silvers and Erestor look at the both of us for a very, very long moment.

I look up at the Bastard and notice with delight that he looks rather embarrassed, looking at the flush that’s rising in his face. Because I’m a very fair and reasonable person, but also a little shit, I reach out to pat the Bastard’s flank like I would Jason and tell him: “Good job.” because he carried Jason this far and that’s something to be praised but also because I want to see if I can embarrass him more.

Erestor bursts out laughing, which is nice, but then Silvers literally jolts to check on his wound, which is a lot less nice. 

I can’t leave this guy alone for a second, can I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my family has a tradition of opening one present on christmas eve and i'm letting you guys in on it. i figured you guys wouldn't mind a surprise update :)
> 
> merry christmas to all who celebrate it


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What two weeks in Rivendell are like. A rough layout of Rivendell. Home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Anonomy!!! Who drew Cyr with Jason and Corvo and Morrigan!!!! And Erestor is there too I guess, BUT LOOK AT CYR AND HER ANIMAL FRIENDS I’M CRYING
> 
> https://anonomi.tumblr.com/post/637858900098564096/art-of-fanfic-i-like

It takes Erestor another whole week to heal from his wounds.

Honestly, not sure if that’s how fast humans do things, but if elves work on different parameters then that explains so much about why I felt like all my cuts I got when back in the forest healed so quick. I never really had the time to question that, because I was too busy being grateful for it and then too busy being busy for it. But if elves do heal quicker, then fuck, I really am a dumbass bitch.

Anyways, Erestor heals and that’s the important stuff.

Since the first night I snuck away, no one had forced me to go back to that pretty but depressing room all alone and I got to stay with Erestor for the most part. I reluctantly had to part with Jason, but Erestor and the Bastard rushed to reassure me that she would be okay in the Rivendell barns, after I teared up from getting some random fur in my eye. The idiots thought I was actually crying. As if. (Okay, maybe a little.) But even I knew you couldn’t keep barn animals in sick rooms. 

The days fell into a pattern. 

Arwen would come by with a basket of food for us and some easy to eat meals for Erestor--though I did keep sneaking him better bites than that boring porridge he had all the time. She’d also bring me a change of clothes every couple of days because these people actually do seem to understand the concept that wearing something once and not doing jack in them DOESN’T make them dirty. It’s nice. I don’t know what I was expecting though. These are the people who polish hallways with clam saliva, after all. 

After breakfast and changing, then Silvers, Astordil, and the Bastard would come by. Most of the time they were carrying papers and I got the general impression that Erestor might actually be pretty important here and that they were going to talk about boring things. So I would leave with Astordil whenever the other four would start laying papers out on the bed and begin to talk in the language that still didn’t make sense, but was growing more comprehensible each day.

With Astordil--given the ignoble duty of being my babysitter--I still made sure to visit Jason everyday to give her a few treats so I could still see her. She wasn’t kept in the real barns, but instead in the guard’s stables so she could be closer and I wouldn’t have to trek across the whole fucking compound just to say hi. I think the guards were inconvenienced by Jason taking up a whole stall, and might have said something if Astordil wasn’t there being all scary and shit. She really emanted that BDE that I hoped to fuck I would one day be able to emulate. What a queen.

After greeting Jason and watching Astordil scare the piss out of people, I would explore Rivendell with Astordil at my heels. Afraid I’d make a run for it again? Don’t worry, honey, you wouldn’t see that coming. Anyways, she would be very helpful in teaching me new words as we went around as I pointed at random things and she would supply me the word. She also taught me ‘why’ and THAT’S been in my back pocket for a few days now, to be used to it’s most devastating effect when I can actually understand more complex sentences.

Besides that, I’ve gotten a little more used to the staring adults. At first I flinched back, but Arwen--also a snitch--seemed to have let everyone know that food is my weakness. People would offer me food and I’d let them get close enough to coo as I chowed down. I probably wasn’t as mad as I should have been that they were acclimating me like a feral cat, but the treats they gave me were fucking delicious. They had this spice cookie that made me want to die with how delicious it was.

I admit, I hoe’d myself out a bit for them.

I have no regrets.

Often exploring would take until late afternoon for me to grow tired and then I’d insist on going by the herb garden so I could pick some sprigs of lavender for the assembled quartet. Astordil tried to stop me the first time I crawled back in through the window, but after an admittedly lucky hit to her titty, she hasn’t stopped me since. Just sighs and follows me through. There I make the four of them--yes, even the Bastard--take a moment to huff lavender and calm the fuck down. They always looked a little more stressed out and tired when they started that morning, and I think this system helps.

After that, Arwen, Astordil, and the Bastard gather up the papers--all of them, because the last time they left some for Erestor to look over, I threw them out the window--and leave while Silvers (who absolutely is head doctor here) checks up on Erestor’s wound. I always take a look at that when he does it, because I’m curious and also a little morbid, and it’s fun. Silvers typically rubs some herb-y smelling paste over the wound while talking. I assume he’s explaining things to me and Erestor about it, although I understand only one word in ten, but that’s enough for me. Certainly more than I knew two weeks ago.

Shit.

Two weeks I’ve been here. 

Wack.

Not gonna think about that.

Most evenings end with another meal brought by someone else that Erestor and I eat before he takes one of the books Arwen picked up and we review more language stuff before I inevitably get bored and fall asleep.

Rinse, repeat.

And then one afternoon, Silvers wipes away the paste on Erestor’s side and it looks fine! There’s a dark-ish scar where his wound is, but it looks nicely healed over. He’s no longer at risk of literally busting his gut when he laughs, which is nice. Silvers helps Erestor out of bed and makes him walk around a little. The scar stretches well and doesn’t seem to bother him as he goes, but he sits down rather heavily on the bed afterwards. He’ll need to exercise a lot more after this to regain his strength. Being bedridden does that to you. 

“Hîr vuin,” Erestor starts and then follows it up with a sentence I can’t even begin to track. I think Hîr-vuin is Silver’s real name but it sounds lame so I’m going to keep calling him Silvers. There’s a conversation, of which I do catch a couple of things, but then Erestor is smiling his “I’m-happy-but-trying-to-be-subtle-about-it” smile and standing. I immediately go to his side--because he looked a little wobbly there--and when he holds out his hand, I don’t even hesitate to grab onto it. 

Gotta reward the dude for displaying some intelligence. 

“Come, Cýrlinnaril, they have,” something something something “for us.”

“Good?” I say it like a question, because it is. What have they done for us? Do I need to stab someone? Because I have my knife back and I ain’t afraid to use it.

“Good,” Erestor says, leading me out of the sickroom, with Silvers beside us. We walk down the not-quite-familiar-but-definitely-getting-there hallways, but Erestor brings us to the wing where I first stayed that one disastrous night. Instead of heading to the right, we go left and come to an open air breezeway that gently slopes up and snakes it’s way up a hill and into a thinned forest that I can only slightly glimpse through the trellis-like structure on the walls that is crawling with vines. There’s a roof above us and the vines protect from the wind without making it too oppressive. 

Ugh, upward slope.

At least it's not stairs.

I bite back my complaints because I’m not a bitch as we begin to walk. We pass a garden on either side of us, that I can catch between the trellises. On the right is a terrace garden filled with flowers that have obviously been preciously tended, with a staircase cutting through the middle of it and small stepping-stone pathways threaded throughout so that all the flower boxes can be tended to. On the other side, the other garden is comprised of with a small pond with a bench by it and a willow tree overhanging it, but rather than it being boxed in like the right side, it actually overlooks the south-west part of the valley, giving a kickass view of the fields and the orchards that Astordil once pointed out to me after I forced her to climb one of the watchtowers with me. I knew that if we were facing a little bit more north that I would be able to see the barns that Jason and the other animals were being kept in. 

We walk further until the gardens turn into well kept forests of birch and pine and ginkgo trees, and the path drifts ever so slightly more to the west as we go. By the time we reach the top of the path, it’s been hardly twenty minutes, but we’re about level with the highest guard tower of the Main House of Rivendell. 

From where we stand, the path abruptly then dips down into a shallow divot and lays out a span of space that--at a guess--is approximately three football fields long from the place we are now at the top of the path to the foot of the cliffs of the valley sheltering us. Given the scattering of buildings--both long tall ones that mimic apartment buildings, and smaller individual houses--I’m guessing this is the residential area. 

Interesting, and also pretty damn clever of whoever designed this place.

From anywhere in the central hub, this place would be totally unnoticed, since the trees help disguise the path and the slope. The optical illusion makes it seem like the back of the main house is right up against the cliffs, when in reality there’s so much more space. For as hidden Rivendell is in the valley, the main residential area hides yet more people and buildings, of which there are many. 

The new buildings match perfectly with the rest of Rivendell’s aesthetics, of course. If there’s a pattern to how they’re laid out, then I can’t see it. It looks random to me. The paths that wind to all houses that are gathered in little cul-de-sacs and in between them are made out of stone, slightly raised from the dirt to presumably to prevent mud from covering the stones when it’s wet outside. There are trees and bushes and flowers growing everywhere and melding in seamlessly with the buildings and the nature around it. There’s been a conscious effort to put in itty bitty plazas, and there’s honest to goodness wells for easy access water. 

This entire place looks like some sort of Renaissance fantasy-solarpunk wet dream.

Damn.

Alright.

Just when I think Rivendell can’t get any more impressive.

I had been wonderings where the fuck all these elves lived. The main building is large, but not that large. In my wanderings, I had simply seen too many people to have all fit in there, if there needed to be room for a hospital and private hospital rooms like Erestor’s and a hospital lecture hall AND a library AND that huge hall filled with fire braziers everywhere AND a huge kitchens AND several offices I accidentally wandered into. (And left, several cookies richer.)

Also, being an immortal elf and having to live your immortal life in a fucking college dorm sounds like a special sort of hell reserved for molestors and people who talk at the theatre.

I close my eyes, trying to picture the orientation of Rivendell as a whole.

It’s south-facing, to get as much sun as possible from this location tucked into a valley. The main bridge we passed in through comes in from the south-east of the central hub. The first thing you encounter are the tiny guard-barracks, but we bypassed that when we arrived. Then you hit the outer building first which houses the craft workshops for the warn makers, the weavers, the dyers, the papermakers, the bookbinders, the tailors, the soap makers, the candle makers, the wood carvers, and all the others necessary to run a place like this. It was a very busy, very overwhelming place, so I haven’t explored as much as I’ve wanted to.

Next, you have to cross either the covered bridge that’s raised above the four split waterfalls to get to the main plaza of the main building, or head behind the craft house and go down a set of stairs, passing the smithy and the pottery makers and the glass makers, and go through the wooded path to get to the back of the main building.

Then you can get into the main building, which houses everything I’ve already mostly explored. 

From the main building plaza, you can head south-west down a long, gentle slope to get to the sprawl of farms that Astordil has pointed out to me. She also pointed out a cluster of buildings that I could only barely see and I presume the small hamlet is out there to provide residences for elves to live when tending to the fields that grow the food for Rivendell.

From the main building plaza, you can head west down another long, gentle slope to get to the orchards and the vineyards, which houses fruit-bearing trees, the ever-important grapes, and a distillery, I think. Astordil wasn’t quite as helpful here, mainly due to the language barrier, and she didn’t let me go down to explore. Spoilsport.

From the main building plaza, you can head north-west down--you guessed it--another long, gentle slope and get to the barns, which is where they wanted to put Jason before I stopped them. It’s one of the farther places from the main building, probably to stop the smell of barn animals from corrupting the nostrils of these fancy-ass elves. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if the orchards and the barns also had some housing. It’s not like all the elves can live up here and traipse through half the valley to get to their jobs every morning. That would suck up half the day at least and be so inefficient that this place would have collapsed long before I came here. 

If I had to ballpark guess the residency here, I’d say probably around five thousand minimum to run a place like this. Probably more, if there’s a patrol rotation, which there fucking should be if they’re trying to protect this place. 

Taking a look across this little neighborhood, I’d guess this is where the bulk of them live, but unless everyone’s sharing rooms, I doubt this is the only such isolated residential area. Since the southern parts of the valley are taken up by farmland, that means the northern half must have more pockets of houses like this. And also perhaps...

I look at the cliff face with more scrutiny. And yup--there--carved into the rock, with barely discernible dips of shadow and light, are indicators that there may or may not be houses built into the cliff itself.

“Good job.” I hear, and then Erestor’s hand is carding through my hair in a way that immediately makes me want to go limp with the flood of serotonin. Touch-starved who? 

I reel myself back in to realize that he’s praising me for my noticing of the houses in the cliffs. I spare a thought for a moment that this probably isn’t stuff a child should know or be thinking about, but I’ve never gone out of my way so far to act like a child--indulgence of sweets aside--so I figure there’s nothing wrong with me acting like me.

Erestor hasn’t minded so far, and his is the only opinion I care about.

Arwen and Silvers are coming closer, but haven’t quite made it. Another week of Arwen giving me bread and that’ll probably change though. She really knows the way to a girl’s heart.

Erestor takes a hold of my hand again and we walk down the path into the residential area itself, Silvers right on our heels. We pass a few people, tending to the growing things around them, or fixing up some wear and tear on the houses themselves, and they all call out a greeting of some kind to Erestor and Silvers, but thank god, no one approaches.

We go down the left path to one of these small houses--one of the closest ones, actually, if a little tucked to the side--in it’s own tiny cul-de-sac with three other houses nearby. They’re all the same natural, art nouveau style that the rest of Rivendell has, but the far left house has a pretty beech tree growing next to it, with a small flower garden composed of yellow flowers and yellow flowers alone. Oh, wait, there’s also a small herb garden. Thank god. If we lived next door to a freak who was only committed to the yellow aesthetic I would have been morally obligated to cause some problems. 

As it stands, Erestor leads us to the middle house and stops us in front of the door.

He tells me a word. House, I presume, because my already damn good deductive reasoning skills have only gotten better since coming here.

I repeat it, then point at the house. “Erestor?” It has to be his house. Oh, I so hope he is going to show me around. I’ll have to compile a mental list about all the shitty interior design he has so when I learn more words, I can critique him later. This will be so fun--

“Erestor and Cýrlinnaril house,” he says, softly.

I nod. Just as I suspected then, which means I need to be ready to roast the f--

Freeze.

Process.

I whip my head up to look at him, wondering if he’s playing some sort of joke. He can’t really mean--

But yes.

He does.

I can see it in his eyes as he looks at me--not demanding or overly earnest, but open and patient. He’s waiting, waiting for me to make the first move, to accept. Not taking the choice from me like in the woods, but letting me decide here and now. I--

I look down, grappling with my composure. Dammit, Erestor, I’m NOT gonna cry over this! I’m NOT! I refuse!

…

Fuck.

...

FUCK.

I squeeze his hand probably too tight and I know there’s tears gathering in my eyes when I look back up. 

“Erestor and Cýrlinnaril house,” I say. “Good.”

And it is. It’s good. It’s better than good. It makes something in my soul turn to ember-warm with the idea of a soft bed in my own bedroom with access to a kitchen that’s always stocked and living room that’s always warm and a bathroom with a bathtub that always has soap in it and the peaceful, quiet companionship of another person and the maybe-possibly-dare-I-hope-for-it actual life with...with someone like family. With Erestor.

“Good,” I say again, to make sure he understands.

With the way he smiles back at me, I think he does. Erestor squeezes my hand back, quick and quiet, and walks us the rest of the way forward to the house we’ll be living in, leading my slightly floaty feeling self forward. As he unlocks the front door, I realize he wasn’t saying the word for house.

He was saying home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw ur internet is down for like three days and ur gonna miss ur post time BUT UR DAD COMES IN AT THE CLUTCH AND GETS UR INTERNET FIXED BOOYAH
> 
> sorry for the delay. loves, but where i am it's still Monday so shrugs i guess


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home! Mornings in detail. Afternoons in less detail. Dinner in so much detail. (You might want to grab a snack to eat during this.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY ARE YOU ALL SO GOOD TO ME!!! Look at this art that RobinKit did!!!! I’m!!!!! She’s so well framed and vibrantly colored and I’m so vibing with the dark background versus her white hair. 
> 
> https://robinsp0.tumblr.com/post/638325484921438208/i-summon-thee-getoffmyrichard-to-behold-my-first 
> 
> Content warning: bulimia adjacent actions. Starting from the line “Come on.” to line “I’m not sure what tell I had” if you want to skip anything.

The house isn’t the largest, but it’s nice and it’s cozy.

The first floor is composed of a kitchen-dining-living room in the front and a large bathroom in the back part. The second floor is divided into two by a hallway, with one side containing my bedroom and the other, Erestor’s. 

From the front door, you enter into the midpoint between the kitchen and the living room. On the right is the kitchen that’s small but otherwise perfectly functional. The stove looks unfamiliar so I’m hesitant to experiment with it quite yet, but at least the sink has running water. No fridge, obviously, but during my explorations, I did notice that the kitchens in the main hall had a semi-free larder that people would often take from. I was confused at first, but now it makes sense. That place must also function as Rivendell’s grocery store, and people pick things up to cook at home if they don’t want to eat in the communal dining hall.

On the left is the living room and dining room. The dining room is literally just a small breakfast nook, with a circular table to save on space and a window bench with two chairs by it, tucked into the front window area of the living room. The living room itself consists of two chairs made of faded green velvet and a side table between them, facing a stone fireplace with a woven carpet stretching the whole ten by thirteen feet of the living room, delineating it clearly from the rest of the big room. There’s one of those large storage cabinets with an intricately carved front that depicts some ocean scene, but poking through it only reveals boring stuff like dishes and sheets and whatever. There’s also a number of bookcases here, all stuffed with tomes I don’t even want to begin to look at. 

Then there’s the staircase that heads up to the left and straight up to the second floor. Behind the staircase, however, is the bathroom. The bathing area and the water closet are in separate places for hygiene. The door to the right opens to the bath, where a large tub dominates the room. There’s another storage rack for bathing items like the soap I like and the soap Erestor likes, but other than that, it’s pretty bare. 

Up the staircase to a small landing and then the hallway, making a large T shape essentially. Heading left at this fork is my room, a small thing but well furnished with a bed, a wardrobe, a chair, and a bookcase that’s already filled with the books Erestor is using to teach me to read. It’s plain, obviously, since I haven’t added anything to it. The north-facing window means I won’t get a lot of natural light, but it looks out onto a nice view of the forest.

On the right is Erestor’s room and I’m unabashed when I check it out. It’s much larger than mine, which is fair. The bed is against the far wall which takes it as far out of the light of the south-facing window as possible. There’s just one bookcase, but it already seems to be groaning under the weight it’s subjected to. There’s a wardrobe for Erestor too, but it’s mainly filled with his boring blue work robes and only a few fun colorful items stuffed in the back. There’s three woven carpets on the ground, covering almost the entire room, which is a good call because these floors aren’t heated. I resolve to get a few for my room too. Erestor also has a chair, but instead of a stiff wooden one, this one is just as cushy and plump as the ones downstairs. I need to get me one of those too.

At the end of my investigation--with Erestor trailing behind me as I snooped--I made sure to pat him on the arm.

“Good job.”

Needs more tchotchkes though, which I shall be more than happy to provide.

  
  


Our neighbor--the one with the beech tree and the yellow flowers--is the Bastard.

First of all, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Second of all, he wakes up everyday at fuck o’clock in the morning and then has the audacity to knock on our door. And then! Erestor! This idiot of an elf! 

Answers!

The!

Fucking!

Door!

I know this, because although it’s been a month since Erestor and I moved in here, I haven’t quite shaken my habit of sneaking into Erestor’s bed at night and thus, every morning, I feel the bed shift as he rises. I know he isn’t happy about having to get up either, but he does. He’s gentle when he does it now, but I will admit with hindsight that the first time he got up cursing and threw me to the ground with all of his blankets was funny as fuck.

He immediately scrambled to help me out and apologize, but it was hilarious to see the panicked expression on his face as he checked me over to bruises as I laughed.

Now Erestor knows I sneak into his bed and he tries to be a lot more quiet and gentle when getting up and getting dressed, but I still hear him stumbling around even within my blanket cocoon. And I know it wouldn’t be a problem if I just slept in my own bed, because I do have one of those here, but sleeping without feeling someone else breathing is still too weird. Maybe I could try bringing Jason here? Erestor probably wouldn’t mind as long as I kept her away from his library.

Anyways, despite how gentle Erestor is, I can always hear their low tones echoing in the mostly wood house and it’s irritating as all fuck when I’m trying to get the fuck to sleep. I thought Erestor was a late sleeper, what is this betrayal? But eventually the smell of cooking food begins to float through the house and my miserable little monkey instincts tell me to get up and then I do, because I have no pride, apparently. 

I tend to grab the covers off of Erestor’s bed and drag them with me as a cloak because while the valley is warm enough during the mid-spring to justify not having a blanket, I’d personally rather have a cloak, just as a general rule of thumb. Also, it always makes Erestor smile when he sees me bundled up. He’s been trying to shove me into more clothes, ever since I shivered once when we had a vocab lesson outside a few days ago. So, every morning: wear the blanket-cloak, enjoy Erestor’s smile, ignore the Bastard as we three dig into breakfast.

After breakfast, the Bastard starts collecting dishes to wash while Erestor gets me into clothes and does my hair. He’s weirdly insistent on that part. I think the reason is two-fold: firstly, I think he’s taken umbrance to my tendency to just...shed layers when I feel like it. Which is partly his fault for thinking I need to wear like three layers, underclothes and dress and over robes all at once. Fuck that noise. Exploring Rivendell is hard enough being a kid among adults, I don’t need extra weight on me slowing me down even more. 

The other reason is that Erestor knows clothes stress me out and blessedly takes away the anxiety of having to dress myself away from me.

The only time I’d accept not having a choice, to be honest. 

It’s just that--

I’ve been living in two sets of clothes for basically five years. There wasn’t any worry about what to wear because I had work clothes that I woke up in and sleep clothes that I knitted myself and that was it. No stress. And now in Rivendell that’s changed. A week into living together Erestor brought over the shortest elf I had ever seen. He introduced her as Camaen and said something that I know now is about clothes because she whipped out a thin knotted rope and began measuring my limbs with ruthless and professional efficiency. I normally would have freaked out, but she was so distant and professional about it that I totally forgot to. And literally a week later Erestor brought home a whole trunk of clothes for me, in every color of the rainbow with so many different cuts and styles that I felt a bit overwhelmed by the options. 

I wasn’t able to smile for him, when he presented me with what I know were gifts, because I knew I’d have to begin dressing in an appropriate way and would be expected to act in a way to not ruin the clothes that someone out there made specifically for me and that I lived here now so I had to behave and follow social rules and mores that I didn’t know and wouldn’t even begin to understand because of this damned language barrier and--

I hated it.

I fucking hated it.

I didn’t realize that I was clenching my fists so hard that my nails broke skin, not until Erestor gently coaxed my hands to open so he could treat the wounds. I don’t think he got what was wrong until I wore the autumn dress for the fifth time in a row and refused to let him take it to wash. And once he did, he began dressing me.

And may I just say? Erestor’s sense of style slapped.

Very committed to color stories, this guy, which I could appreciate. He tended to favor blue colors, which I think is very transparent of him--haha, parent--because he also wore blue a lot. He wanted to match, which was so adorable that the first time I realized it, I nearly choked on my own laughter. 

My hair is too short to braid like Erestor’s fancy hairdos, but he makes do brushing my hair and then pulling it back with a headband. I was a little shocked when I realized they had headbands but I guess if Rivendell has toilets, headbands are probably expected. My favorite one was a golden one woven to look like little leaves and so incredibly reminiscent of those shitty Roman gold laurel crowns that I fell in love with it instantly. In a somewhat happy coincidence, a lot of my clothes have gold embroidery and decorations too, although I think that has more to do with my eye color than my hairpiece. The upside of having clothes custom made for you is that everything always works with your coloring.

Anyways, after Erestor helped me dress, we would leave the house with the Bastard sticking like a burr. I’d always make sure to grab a loaf of bread and some pieces of fruit to leave outside under the tree I knew Corvo and Morrigan were staying in. 

Then we’d go to the main hall. Erestor did correct me on that, yeah. Technically he called it a “homely house” but that was so stupid and a little redundant that I ignored it. Main hall works fine. 

Speaking of, my language lessons were coming along swimmingly.

In the mornings, Erestor would drop me off with Arwen and she’d teach me more words and some grammar stuff and very kindly not laugh at me when I said something super dumb. It was incredibly educational and I got better at speaking Elvish in leaps and bounds. Something that probably also had to do with immersion learning, to be dead honest. Arwen and I would break for lunch and she’d delight in watching me chow down. After that, I would use the rest of lunch as an opportunity to race down to the stables to see Jason, or to go to the training yards to say hi to Astordil and there I met her assistant/lieutenant/devotee Noendîn who always gave me some sort of snack. 

In the afternoons, lessons with Arwen would continue and then, in the late afternoon, Erestor would come. And then the dreaded writing lessons would start.

UGH.

Still, I kept my mouth shut for the most part, because I did want to learn, even though tengwar script was a nightmare at best and the urge to write like I normally would was nigh overpowering at times. (And yeah, funnily enough, I could write my name perfectly when I tried. Erestor was really surprised, but if he had any comments, he didn’t make them.)

Afternoons would plod into evenings and the Bastard would come to collect Erestor and I and bring us to the dining hall in the main hall. It was a smorgasbord, buffet style dining event, which was a lot of fun despite the sheer amount of people.

It helped that the food was too good to resist.

The meat wasn’t always the main dish but it featured enough. Fresh fish perfectly grilled with crispy skin and flaky white meat, often flavored with just salt and pepper, or with some sort of citrus sauce. Perfectly spiced venison in rich stews with vegetables to lighten the taste, noodles for more body, and just the slightest of bits spicy to prevent the fat from clinging to your tongue. Chicken in a variety of ways like marinated and flame-grilled, or lightly fried in oil and then salted, or cooked into a soup also with noodles, but my favorite was the one that was slow cooked in a balsamic-like dressing with strong flavors of garlic and rosemary and thyme. Nearly every other night featured a whole roasted pig with a downright scandalous amount of sides to accompany it, ranging from a simple salad to a spicy oil sauce to something that tasted exactly like kimchi, which nearly made me cry with relief at the thought that Rivendell had such food variety. 

The vegetables often were the forefront of the meal and for good reason. Eggplant and a variety of squash stuffed with sausage and cheese and mushrooms and held together with bread stuffing. Then there were the carrots and asparagus that were grilled or baked with oil to make them crispy and flavored with dipping sauces and salt and pepper. Root veggies like burdock and daikon and turnips were baked in some sort of sweet-savory sauce that made them crispy and delicious. Artichokes were often grilled and laid out as well, with creamy and spiced dipping sauces to enjoy the meat with. Spinach and arugula salads that were light and fresh to cut through the heavy fat and smoke flavor of other dishes. Potatoes that were also stuffed or grilled or scalloped or included into some other dish seamlessly like the perfect starch that they are. Zucchini lightly fried with tomato sauce was one of my favorites. Not to mention the corn both roasted and grilled, but also thrown into pretty much every dish possible to add sweetness to counteract fat and smoke and spice. Cucumbers stood alone on their own, spread out amongst the other dishes in both fresh forms, or lightly salted, or entirely pickled--another palate cleanser. 

And then--the love of my life--the bread. Importantly, a brazier with a grill on it stood nearby for those who wanted toasted bread and there were so many different types of bread to choose from. Rye and wheat and flatbread and a baguette cousin and a ciabatta cousin and a savory cornbread and mixed with nuts and mixed with fruits and MOTHERFUCKING SOURDOUGH. The variety there was only eclipsed by what you could put on the bread. There were spreads like a creamy tomato one and a garlic confit and a pesto mixed with sundried tomatoes and some sort of mustard and just plain old honey and what I’m ninety percent sure is some pate that I didn’t care about because there was also cheese. There were cheeses galore--so many types I couldn’t even begin to name them--but if a bitch took a whole chunk of an elvish smoked gouda equivalent then that’s just how it works sometimes. There were cured meats there too, sliced paper thin and a wonderful salty compliment to the flavor of the cheese and the heaviness of the breads.

Oh, and the drinks were also pretty damn good. Casks of wine were just opened up in the hall to make it easier for everyone, since the dining hall seemed to go through about six barrels a night. There was mead too, which was pretty nice from the taste I stole from the Bastard until Erestor noticed and took the drink away from me like the spoilsport he is. There was fruit infused water that was kept cold in sealed pitchers in nearby fountains for people to crack open when they pleased. I blame my child’s tongue for this, but honestly the apple juice slapped pretty hard. I chugged that shit like it was water and I was in the middle of a desert. It was sweet, but not cloying and was so refreshing it was almost a shock. There were a couple of tea kettles out too, but no one tended to touch those until they were finished with their meal, and dranks a cup of tea with dessert.

The desserts also were a damn pretty sight. Fruit featured heavily. There were sun dried fruits which packed a punch when it came to the concentrated sugars. There was crispy honeyed bread with jam toppings. There were the spice cookies I had come to favor, with a caramel dipping sauce. There were literally too many small fruit tarts to count. I would signal the end of my eating by eating my favorite cookies, and also stuffing some in my pocket to take back home.

So yeah, despite the people and the staring, I fucking went to the group dinners. I mean, who could resist? All of that, nearly every night, albeit with some menu switches for some variety? 

Come on.

_ Come on. _

Anyways, did I overstuff myself and get sick enough to the point of vomiting several times in this past month? Yes. 

Do I regret it? Fuck no.

While seeing Erestor panic kind of sucked, I delighted at such plenty when it came to food. After living in the forest on my own for years, I could only dream of this much food collected with zero effort on my part, which is why I think Erestor let me eat my fill of whatever the fuck I wanted. (Did I over-exaggerate the wide-eyed-in-wonder stare to help that impression along?…Maybe. But could you blame me?)

Unfortunately, Silvers staged an intervention and Erestor closely watched how much I was eating at every meal and ensured I didn’t overstuff myself. I’m not sure what tell I had, but he seemed to know instantly when I was getting too full. He would pull whatever I was working on away and give me a cup of lemon and mint tea to slowly sip on as he finished his meal. I could sometimes convince him to split a fruit tart with me, because I am wholeheartedly and unabashedly gluttonous, but that really depended on Erestor’s mood. He would kindly let me steal a few of my favorite spice cookies to eat when we got home though, so that was nice. I knew he knew that I was taking the cookies and he knew that I knew that he could stop me or take them away whenever. But the fact he didn’t meant that he didn’t disapprove of my taking the cookies for later, which is basically approval if you really thought about it.

Which I did, which is how I ended up with this conclusion.

Erestor would normally eat whatever I chose to sample, although bizarrely enough he refused to eat root vegetables even though I remember distinctly feeding him carrots when we were in the forest. So weird. Whatever dude. Your loss. But his favorite was absolutely the stuffed eggplant, which is a damn fine choice because that shit was bonkers delicious.

The Bastard tended to avoid red meat altogether, which was remarkably easy with the sheer amount of variety offered here. His favorite by far was dessert though. I swear he ate more dessert than he did his actual meal. God. What an overgrown child. And I’m saying that, as a literal child. Also whatever. What he eats or doesn’t eat is his business. 

At the end of the meal, Erestor and I would walk back home. Sometimes the Bastard would come, other times he’d say something about a hall on fire and someone called Lindir and then dip. But always Erestor and I went home. Sometimes I walked and other times Erestor carried me because I was falling asleep at the table. When we got home, I’d wake up a little as we both got into pajamas--and fuck, was owning multiple sets of pajamas a weird sensation--and Erestor would brush out my hair again which was always weirdly soothing. Then he would make me struggle through reading a children’s book like the sadistic asshole he really was, replacing my lullabies which I would have much preferred to sing. Occasionally I’d give in to the pull of sleep just to avoid that torture disguised as reading, which I also think was part of Erestor’s goal so no matter what he’d always win.

Crafty bastard.

During the night, I’d wake up randomly, startled awake by some noise outside, and when I found myself unable to fall asleep again, I’d creep into Erestor’s bed. It was wide enough that I could keep some distance, because I’m still an independent bad bitch who don’t need no man, but I would concede to reaching out a hand, just close enough that I could feel Erestor’s ribs expand with every breath in.

And like that, to the pace of his breathing, I’d fall asleep again.

It was nice. Peaceful.

And with a month and a week under my belt, I was cautiously hopeful that it might last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!
> 
> 2020 got one last jab in at me bc I burned myself while trying to make cookies but my dad (again) patched me up in time to get this posted. But I didn't burn down the house so I'm taking that as a win.
> 
> No chapter update for Diverged in the Yellow Wood this time :'( just this one
> 
> hope you enjoyed and ily guys, thank you for your support. may the new year treat you well :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What elves look like here. Exploring the workshops. Imposing upon the Bastard's space, like he does to us. Take that fuc--oh. Fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY WAIT, EDIT: the brilliant AllisonChance created Erestor and Cyr's house in Sims and i'm fucking freaking out at how good it looks!!!! i'm losing my mind!!! i'm reeling over how detailed it is and laughing at the swing detail bc....well, u'll see
> 
> https://imgur.com/a/g9Alj4u

Confession time.

I thought elves were going to be all tall, skinny white people and I was half dreading it because I don’t look like that and I know in my soul that I’ve never looked like that. 

So coming to Rivendell and realizing that’s all bullshit?

HELL YEAH.

I mean, they’re all tall. Abnormally so. Literally no one I’ve seen has been under five foot nine, which is freaky because I’m barely four foot and I’m used to tall trees not tall people. Also, my neck hurts like a bitch from looking upwards all the time and I’m pretty damn bitter about that.

Happily, however, is how I see the variety of skin tones when walking around Rivendell. I’ve realized that darker skin isn’t that uncommon here and I’m blaming my skewed perception on the face that my first exposure to elves were Erestor’s pasty ass and Glorfindel’s beach boy tan. Astordil is as tan as I am and there’s been several elves with even darker toned skin. There’s a range from Erestor’s porcelain to Glorfindel’s golden tan to my copper skin to Astordil’s warm sepia hue to the cool toned onyx of Erestor’s coworker, Theithor.

Hair is diverse as well. Black is the most common by far, but there’s diversity in texture and tone. For instance, Erestor’s hair is silky with a blue sheen, where Theithor’s is a dark brown-black and braided tightly into box braids, and that one dude from the healing hall has a riot of curly black hair with red highlights that makes it look like he’s been electrocuted or something. The next most common is brown and red. Brown more often than red, but there’s a uniting factor of brown and red hair being much more likely to be wavy rather than curly or straight. White hair isn’t usual, but a light silvery tone is. The hair I’ve seen ranges from an incredibly pale platinum to almost grey to a silvery sheen over pale grey, but it’s close enough to white that if no one looks close, it doesn’t stand out. The person with the most stand-out hair is actually the Bastard, with his hair so long and golden he’d given Rapunzel a run for her money.

There’s also a wide range of body types. The one uniting factor is probably the assumption that everyone here could probably bench press a cow, because I’ve come to learn that elves are strong no matter what body type they have. But aside from that, I’ve seen more body types than twig thin models I was half dreading. Astordil, for instance, has the build a professional body builder would envy. Eithoriel (another of Erestor’s coworkers) has wide hips and wide shoulders and soft roundness everywhere else. The Bastard is built like a brick house with a shoulder to waist ratio a Dorito would envy, but even he didn’t have chiseled abs and instead carries a bit of weight around his gut that made him look healthy and not dehydrated. Noendîn--Astordil’s assistant/lieutenant/devotee--is thin, but like a whip is thin and not like a ninety five pound model is thin. They’re entirely tightly controlled, corded muscle, ready to strike at any second. 

Oh, and the genders, or lack thereof? Cracked that code. The basics are: do those ears look longer and do the points look a bit dropped and pointed a little more horizontally? That’s a lady. Or: do those ears look like human ears with an itty bitty point on them that tends to go straight up? That’s a dude. And lastly: does that elf have piercings? That’s an elf saying fuck the gender I was born as. It’s simple and poetic and simply poetic. I think there’s some sort of code to what style of earrings one has and their color and placement, but I’ve yet to figure exactly how that works, since I barely have the lexicon of a five year old and can’t ask questions well.

Anyways, it’s good shit to know because then I can do shit like this:

“Please, kind one?” I ask, looking up hopefully at the elf person with a row of piercings in their ear, who’s sitting at a wood carving station with a plank of wood in their hands. I can feel the gazes of all the other elves in the workshop staring at me, but I keep my eyes on the strawberry blonde before me, smiling brightly. 

They answer, sounding a bit unsure.

I let my smile begin to drop and my head begin to droop. I bite my lip and then reach out to grab her sleeve between two fingers, looking back up at them with just a hint of teary eyed softness. “Please?” I ask again.

They cave.

VICTORY.

The elf carves two holes on one side of the plank and two holes on the other in record time for someone without power tools and hands the board back to me.

“Thank you!” I say, giving them the full force of the brightest smile I can muster. I can see them and the others about to start cooing and woof, not up for that right now. I take the board and run off. 

The workshops are a splendid place to run around. A lot of people notice me but are too busy to stop to interact with me, which is fantastic, and also they’re too scared of Erestor, which is also fantastic. This is the second time I’ve joined Erestor on his little assessment of the place and last time I spent most of it hiding nearly in his robes as he went around, watching everything.

The hall was three stories tall. The first floor was basically entirely a woodshop. Carpenters here and barrel-makers there, luthiers close and furniture makers far, bow-makers yonder and decorative wood carvers whatever the opposite of yonder is. The goddamn millisecond I walked in, it was a cacophony of sounds and movement, but instead of being overwhelming, it felt...nice, almost. Industrious. Familiar. The focus not really being on me also helped. Erestor talked forever with some kind of foreman and that’s when I spotted the elf in question carving alone. An apprentice, it looked like, and my eye was caught by the rows of golden earrings glinting off of their pale skin. Ideas already forming, I mentally made them my mark before we carried on that day.

The second floor was devoted to cloth. The carding and the spinning and the weaving and the sewing were all done here. The dying was done off site, because apparently that can get stinky, but then they were brought back to Camaen--the lady who took my measurements that first week in Erestor’s house. Apparently she was the head of this section, given how Erestor talked with her about everything. With a cookie in my hand provided by Camaen and all the people here lazer focussed on their task, I had stepped away to the other rooms to see what other workshops were doing. Most of it was the same: fullers beating fibers to be woven stronger and thicker, weavers who make the cloth, carders and shearment to perfect the final product and seamstresses and embroiderers to create a work of art from it. A good third of the entire floor was for the leather workers, but the scent of leather was so thick and heady that I couldn’t stay for long. There was a whole room for shoe-making, staffed by six very harried looking people who I avoided. 

The third level seemed to be miscellaneous. Erestor had to talk to everyone from every workshop. There were candle makers and book makers and soap makers who had the largest, most well ventilated room I’ve ever seen. There was also what looked like a hair cutting station, which is weird as fuck because I just assumed elves never cut their hair, given how long everyone’s seems to be. But I guess even elves can’t avoid split ends. And then--most important, heroes of Rivendell, the only pillar holding up this crumbling society--the toilet paper makers. They’re also the paper makers in general, but the toilet paper is their most important product and I’ll die on that hill.

Anyways, bring it to now, the second visit, and since I figured out that puppy dog eyes work on most everyone here (Astordil and Silvers being the only exceptions and Erestor quickly building up tolerance), I decided to use my adorable child appearance to make shit happen.

Jenga.

I’m coming for you one day, baby.

I make my way back to Erestor’s side with the plank wedged under my arm and smile benignly at his inquisitive look. 

“Shh,” I say and press a finger to my lips, to which he raises his eyebrows and his personal assistant, Hanneth, purses her lips to stop her twitching smile. We make our way up to the second level and I beg a length of red ribbon off of another worker. As I come back to Erestor’s side as we make our way up the stairs, he gives me another look.

“What are you--” something “--on doing?”

I repeat the word.

“Planning,” Erestor says, explaining the concept. I nod. 

“Planning fun,” I tell him. Oh yeah, I learned that word right quick. Fun, that is, and planning also, I suppose. I don’t remember learning another language before, but the words and definitions come easy to me now. The sentence structure is still subject-verb-object so that’s nice, even though some adjectives and adverbs are placed funky sometimes, but I’m coping. 

Anyways, I’ve found that calling things I’m doing ‘fun’ has an overall 75% chance of getting an adult to leave me alone to my games. The other 25% is them wanting to get involved, but that’s solved when I simply stop and ask them for food until they give me some and leave. 

“Planning something fun?” he asks. “And will it--” something “--Glorfindel?”

Bother, I’m guessing.

“Fun for Glorfindel,” I tell him, because the Bastard better appreciate my efforts. Sure I was also planning on annoying him with it, but it’s for a good cause. In fact, I’m doing my duty as a reasonable citizen by helping him out like this.

And if the Bastard complains, I’m shoving the wooden plank down his throat.

Looking slightly skeptical but mostly amused, Erestor lets it go. 

I gamely stick around for the rest of the tour and note to myself to come back and get scrap paper for origami and planes later, but as soon as it’s over I leave Erestor’s side to hurry back home.

“We’re having dinner at home, Cýrlinnaril!” he calls after me.

“Yes!” I call back, turning briefly to wave at him, just to make sure he gets the message that I heard. I spin back around to narrowly avoid slamming into someone and we both dodge each other automatically before getting a look at each other. 

I smile sheepishly.

Astordil fixes me with a hard look.

“No running,” she says.

“Yes, Astordil,” I say.

Ever by her side, Noendîn bites their lip to stop a smile from breaking out, but gives me a wink when I catch their eye. I smile and wave at them before walking down the halls slowly, like some sort of loser. I wait until I hear Astordil and Noendîn walking before I take off into a run, ignoring Astordil’s shout of “I hear you!” as I go.

Hey, if she isn’t gonna run after me to catch me, then she’s not that mad.

That’s how this goes, right?

Right.

Anyways, I make it back home. 

I dump the wood plank on the floor and race up to my room to grab the rope I had stolen from the stables yesterday and bring it downstairs. Both pieces in hand, I lug them outside and sit, tucking myself into a lotus pose for comfort before taking the rope and plank into my lap. I thread the rope through the holes and tie both sides off securely, testing them with all my strength before judging them properly tied. And if not, then eh, I’ll get the Bastard to fix it later.

Then I stand, kicking off my shoes and pull off my heavy dress so I have freedom of movement. Slinging the rope across my chest like a bandolier, I climb up into the tree in front of the Bastard’s front yard. I had already marked out the branch I wanted to use, so it’s quick and easy to make my way downtown, walking fast, faces past and I’m homebound--

Wait, don’t get distracted.

I give in slightly and hum under my breath as I tie the two ends of the rope securely around the branch and drop the swing seat down. It bounces, bungee style, which is nice. I climb back down the normal way and see that the swing is a little too high, but I can still get on if I use the rope to haul myself up. Before I get on, I take the length of the red ribbon and cut it in half with my knife. I tie the ribbon onto the sides of the rope, to give it some decoration and then I’m done. I have a swing.

Can I just say?

FUCK YEAH

I immediately pull myself up onto the swing, kicking my legs back and forth to test the rope. The swing seems to be holding steady. No ominous creaks of branches or the sharp whispers of fraying rope--just smooth rubbing of rope on wood and the wind in my ears.

Yeah, this is the life.

  
  


Erestor and the Bastard come home together and it’s very funny to see their two different reactions to me swinging. They both have a moment of baffled confusion as they’re trying to piece together what exactly is going on here. 

And then Erestor looks immediately concerned and the Bastard looks immediately delighted. 

Erestor, the party pooper, makes me get off and scolds me for using the Bastard’s personal property like this, but mortifyingly enough the Bastard intervenes on my behalf and says he likes the swing (which I thought was a new thing here, but apparently isn’t) and it grateful for the gift.

I don’t have the word skills to tell him that it was meant to be MY imposition onto the Bastard’s home since he’s always at Erestor’s place, but I’ll have to save it for next time.

  
  


(The next day I see him actually swinging on it.)

(What a bastard.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i will NOT be taking any criticism about my interpretation of variety of phenotype among the Eldar or the gender norms :) i don't give a shit what canon says, JRRT can eat my entire ass. don't clown, pls and thank.
> 
> anyways, hope u enjoyed and i hope y'all are stayin safe out there


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ayyy long time no sing! naps, bc that never goes wrong for me. ANOTHER CHASE SCENE BUT THIS ONE ISN'T ON ME I SWEAR-- "Erestor, I wanna go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at this cute lil comic Aluminum_Wizard did for chapter 18!!!!! little Cyr being all squishy and innocent looking with sparkly puppy eyes, like she's not planning some nefarious shit. isn't that just cute as fucking hell???? and then being cradled by Glorfindel looking like a sulky kitten i'm heart-eyes bros, not even gonna lie
> 
> https://darth-cat.tumblr.com/post/639590258621792256/hey-here-is-my-version-of-chapter-18-from-the-ao3

There’s a big hullabaloo in the main courtyard and it is not my fault!

Maybe it is?

No, definitely not. I’ve been well behaved all day, except for escaping from my babysitter, but really, that’s his fault for not paying attention, really.

For once, I’m alone. Arwen is off who knows where, Erestor is busy, and Astordil is off on a patrol so they left me with a new babysitter. The dude left with me got so distracted talking with a few others about a feast or something that he was easy to slip away from to find my new perch. There are a lot of statues in Rivendell, and they make for fantastic look out spots for kids like me. The statue is huge. Like. Super huge. Her face is as tall as I am huge. She’s in a pretty Greecian style dress, with her hair falling in light, loose waves. Honestly, the carving is pretty impressive. She looks like she’s ready to stand at any moment. Also, she’s actually an elaborate fountain rather than a statue, and kneels by a small pool and pours out water from a pitcher cradled in her hands. The pool tumbles down into a few, cute, little waterfalls before joining the small stream rushing a few feet below us. 

I’m currently sitting on the top of the pitcher, using a stolen seat cushion to pad my butt from the hard stone and I’m settled in the space between her thumb and forefinger. My legs dangle just far enough that if I stretch a little bit I can dip my toes into the cool water. Spring is now edging into summer and bringing with it the characteristic heat. It’s not bad yet, but I’m also now wearing more layers and I find I get warmer a lot more easily. I wonder if we could swap out some of the heavier fabrics for a linen or something? Or if people would kindly stop freaking out whenever I took off my over dress. Like come on, I’m wearing a shirt and pants underneath it, what more could they want?

Down below, I can see figures moving like fat, agitated bumblebees, buzzing around each other. I can assume it’s a racket down there, because nearly everyone is wearing armor and I can see the horses stamping with growing anxiety, but I’m just far enough away that I can’t hear it. Thank fuck.

There’s a caw and I look up in time to see Morrigan land on the pitcher right next to me.

“Hey girl,” I greet her, not in elvish--sorry, Sindarin. Apparently, there are multiple versions of elvish and I’m already dreading when Erestor makes me learn the other ones after I master Sindarin. I know I’m getting better at the language, but honestly, I sometimes miss speaking like I normally do. I hold a hand out and Morrigan hops closer to look at it, pushing my hand out of the way when she sees there’s no food. Instead of flying away, she instead hops into my lap and lightly nips at my hand with her beak. 

“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing. “I get it.” I begin to pet her, alternating pets with preening her feathers. “You want a song, girl? It’s been so long since I’ve had some time to sing, with all of the lessons and the explorations. Erestor hasn’t really had time for it lately.” 

But what to sing?

I should keep it sweet and simple, now that I’ve found the time--

Oh, yeah, that one. That one works.

_And I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind_

_And I'll use you as a focal point_

_So I don't lose sight of what I want_

I shift Morrigan so that I can continue petting her on her stomach. I wonder where the hell Corvo is. They’re not normally separated. Maybe they’ve finally had chicks and he’s watching them? They better introduce me or I’ll be pissed.

_And I've moved further than I thought I could_

_But I missed you more than I thought I would_

_And I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind_

The echo here is actually quite pretty. Not as grand as that one staircase, but decent enough. The water flowing isn’t a piano, but it makes a decent enough accompaniment. Ugh, that reminds me, I need to find a drum around here.

_Oh, and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

I could probably convince Erestor to give me a beat so I could sing more intense songs, after his weird obsession with pre-bed time torture-- I mean, reading lessons fades away.

_And I'll use you as a makeshift gauge_

_Of how much to give and how much to take_

_Oh, I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind_

Oh, speaking of, I think I see him down there! At least, I see the Bastard in all his golden glory and he tends to stick near Erestor. Over these past three months, he’s actually been pretty decent, but the nickname is so stuck in my head that I can’t think of him as anything else. Still, he and Erestor are obviously good friends, if the constant meeting up for breakfasts and dinners counts, so I should get used to him sooner rather than later.

_Oh, and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

_When I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

I should probably correct myself on how I refer to him now that I think about it. I resolve to stop calling him the Bastard once I get back at him for the chase thing and the grabbing-me thing and the taking-my-knife thing. I need to line up a lot of pranks then. Oh no, what a chore!

_Oh, and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be, oh_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be, oh_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

I look down at Morrigan and laugh. Oh my god, I’ve never seen a more blissed out looking bird.

“That’s not going to be a usual thing,” I tell her. “Also, it’s Corvo’s turn next time.”

She squawks at me, as if protesting what I’m saying, but settles herself into my lap regardless. I snort. What a lazy bird. But honestly, she might have the right idea. The sun is warm but from the place I’m sitting, the stone lady’s head is preventing me from direct sunlight. I take a look up and realize that I could get in at least an hour of a nap without disturbance from the sun if I so chose.

And I so fucking choose.

An hour is plenty of time for the clusterfuck down there to clear up and for me to get back to my babysitter before anyone but him realizes I’m gone. 

That decided, I pick up Morrigan and my seat cushion before stepping over the thumb and into the cooler bit of shade from the lady’s kindly leaning body. I put the cushion down, using it as a pillow as I curl up with Morrigan at my side. The stone is pretty uncomfortable, but after some shifting, it’s tolerable to rest against the slope of the lady’s finger on the pitcher. With the combination of the warm sun, the cool shade, the sound of the brook, and the gentle scent of flowers on wind, I fall asleep quicker than I thought possible.

  
  


A murmur, the rustle of cloth, the scent of something herby...Ugh, waking up. Worst feeling in the world, after wet socks. Oh, and humid weather. 

I take a deep breath in to brace myself while curling my whole body in a little bit like a shrimp to get the blood flowing. I relax my body with a sharp exhale, resigning myself to being conscious. 

UGH.

There’s a murmur, a half-cut off word.

Fine, fine, I’m getting up.

“Erestor?” I ask, rubbing at my eyes to clear them.

The rustle of cloth again and then braided black hair comes into view framing a moon-pale face and stormy grey eyes--

NOT ERESTOR.

I jolt, pushing myself away from the person leaning over me. Adrenaline floods my system as I recoil, rapidly taking in the unfamiliar person. He looks vaguely familiar, but no immediate name comes to mind and he’s too close, much too close, get away, get away--

Panic makes my body move before I can think.

I twist on my side, putting my weight on my left hip and left forearm, and bring my right leg up to push kick at the dude’s entirely-too-close chest. 

Contact.

If he wasn’t already so surprised and off balanced, I know I wouldn’t have managed to push him as far as I did, but as it stands he tumbles ass over tea kettle down the statue and lands with a very solid thump on his back. Unfortunately, he recovers instantly, and rolls to his feet, but I don’t bother waiting around to see him recover more. I slide down the other side of the lady’s pitcher, landing hard on the slope of her lap and staggering at the jolt. 

I don’t account for how steep the slope is and lose my balance, tipping into the pool below with a splash.

Which HURTS, by the way.

The fall was only about four feet into a three foot pool, which is the only thing that saved me from being hurt worse. It still fucking hurt though, because the water wasn’t quite enough to slow my fall entirely and I scrape my palms and knees scrambling to my feet. Fuck. If I wasn’t so used to tripping over so many fucking roots in the forest all the time, I don’t think I would have shaken the jolt off as quickly as I could.

“Hey! Wait!”

HELL NO.

I haul my soggy self out of the pool and begin sprinting as best I can in a soaked dress. There’s a grunt and a splash behind me as I reach for my dress hem and begin to haul it up and over my shoulders. Get rid of the weight. Avoid. You know the halls now. Evasive maneuvers. Why is it that I’m always getting fucking CHASED here?

“Hey! Kid! Wait!”

WHAT PART OF HELL NO DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND.

Footsteps, fast. Slapping on the floors. Gaining.

I remember years ago, three men chasing me under the moonlight, angry and forceful and wanting to kill--

No no no no no no no no.

I half strangle myself getting the fucking dress up and off me, gasping at the sudden double vision of memory and reality blurring. 

Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate! 

Plan! Dammit, Cýrlinnaril, plan! 

Wet cloth, slippery, blind spot, trap. Okay.

I sprint with my dress bundled in my hands, and I make a sharp turn around the next corner I see. I waste a precious moment spinning on my heel to drop the dress before whipping around again and running as fast as my burning, aching legs can go. 

“I’m sorry! Pleas--” 

And then the squeal of something wet on smooth tile and a word that is undoubtedly a curse word and a heavy smacking sound. I risk a look over my shoulder to see the guy chasing me has indeed fallen for my little trap. He is sprawled near the far wall of the hallway on his back, having evidently stepped on my abandoned dress and slid all the way into the opposite wall. He’s dazed, but I saw how quickly he recovered last time. I can’t let this time go to waste.

I gotta find Erestor.

He was in the courtyard last I saw, so check there first. If he’s not there, then I’ll check his office. Okay. Fine. It will have a window as a secondary escape route. I can probably haul myself onto the roof using the lip of it so escape.

And logically-- 

Logically, I know this guy probably isn’t a threat.

He’s in Rivendell. He’s an elf. He is not a threat.

But then I can hear the rush of wind, the shouts of pursuers, the twang of a bow and the hiss of an arrow past my face--

No.

I just want Erestor. 

As I sprint through the halls again, I dip and weave and dodge around other people. Some call out to me--using words I know I understand but can’t for the life of me process right now--but no one lunges for me, which is good because I’m hanging on by a thread already. I get to the main level, constantly looking over my shoulder and panting with the exertion of a flat out sprint. I take a moment to scan the courtyard and there, thank fuck, there--

Erestor next to some lady with super long silver hair that I note to be interested in later, but for now, fuck that shit.

I bolt to him. 

“Erestor,” I say, and I wanted it to be loud to get his attention, but it comes out shaky and weak sounding. He’s just barely turning when I slam into his legs and he stumbles a bit before the silver lady grabs his arm to balance him. In the flurry of my lunge and his robes, my vision is dark and no no no, don’t like that, nothing of the night right now please.

I can feel myself trembling and it’s obnoxious as fuck. I tell my body to stop and to knock that shit off and it doesn’t listen. Stop.

Stop!

“Cýrlinnaril, what’s wrong?” 

Erestor. 

Erestor speaking. 

Erestor kneeling, and I can see his blue eyes, wide with concern. 

Erestor with his hands on my shoulders, grounding me, warming me, stopping the shaking.

I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling myself into the shelter of his arms, wishing semi-hysterically that I could just slip into his chest cavity and stay there forever like any other vital organ, protected and safe. 

Anything to not feel this shaking fear.

Erestor’s arms lock around my body, hauling me up as he stands. I’m swung until I’m nearly sitting on his hip, his closest arm supporting me from underneath while the other comes up to begin to rub at my back.

“Cýrlinnaril, you are--” something “--Are you alright? Can you talk?”

I bury the lower half of my face in his neck, breathing in the ink-book-lavender scent that is so uniquely Erestor. I keep my eyes out, scanning the courtyard with darting glances. There are people looking curiously, the new arrivals, but there’s only whispering. No one approaching. Good. Okay.

Behind me, the lady speaks: “Erestor, is this her?”

“Yes, this is my--...Cýrlinnaril, who I was telling you of.” The pressure of heavy cloth covers my shoulders and back, wrapping me in more warmth. “My thanks, my lady.”

“Of course, Erestor.”

I scan again and see the guy chasing me descending the main stairs slowly with the hobble of someone aching, holding my wet dress in his hand. His gaze finds me immediately and I flinch as we make eye contact, tightening my hold on Erestor before turning my face entirely into his neck. I grab at the cloth on my back to pull over my head, wanting desperately to hide from both him and from the dawning horror of what my panic made me do again.

Fuck.

Why can’t that shit just stop already? I’m safe here! I know I’m safe here so why do I still need to go through this!

What is wrong with me?

“Elladan, my son, why are you wet?”

“Mother,” the chasing man says. “I apologize. I--” something “--the girl and scared her.” 

More words. I don’t care.

I clench the cloth over my head even tighter, thinking the loudest thoughts I can about music. Choirs soaring in churches. Violins singing high notes. Mozart’s symphonies in a blurred, tumbling mixture. I don’t want to hear anything. I want it to be quiet. Everyone else, but especially myself. 

“Erestor,” I whisper, lifting my head a bit. The chatting around me--taking on a tense tone from Erestor and a sheepish tone from the chasing man--ceases. “I wanna go home.”

The hand rubbing my back relocates to pressing my head back against his shoulder, and smoothing the cloth over my head.

“We’ll go home, Cýrlinnaril,” he says and I sag in relief. He immediately starts walking, his hand resuming rubbing circles in my back as I cling to him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay.” 

He repeats that like a mantra, every step of the way.

By the time we get home, I believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...........................and so 1/2 of the twins show up...........probably not how y'all were expecting whoops lol but i really couldn't resist the "finally is comfortable enough in a place to begin easing out of survival mode and into recovery from all the trauma mode" trope for Cyr. i'd say i'm sorry, but i'm not lmaooooo. u kno i love that hurt/comfort guys, i couldn't help it
> 
> song: I Found by Amber Run - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqoVhwMDoK4
> 
> also............gotta quick question,,,,just testing the waters,,,,but would anyone be interested in seeing another MGiME fic?  
> pros: POC NB main character, with D&D gamer powers (aka MAGIC BITCHES) set around the Quest for Erebor with the Company and might possibly maybe feature Bard/OC/Thranduil? (no knowledge of D&D required, only the desire of chaos and fun and a suspension of belief)  
> cons: would stop updating NGCS every monday and shift to maybe only two or three so i have time to write for this other fic
> 
> anyways, let me know! i'll tally up the responses next update and announce what i'll do at the end of that chapter i guess


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, at home. Comforting words from Erestor. The next morning featuring the Bastard, an apology gift, and a local idiot child being stubborn, which shouldn't surprise anyone.

Erestor brings me straight to the bathroom, still saying soothing nothings. He starts the bath while still holding me, gathering everything for it with one hand as he refuses to let me down. Not that I wanted to be let down. Being held right now is very comforting. 

Also, I’m not sure I could stand on my own right now. My legs fucking hurt. A combination of the falling and scraping and running one right after the other did a number on them. I’m young and bouncy, but it still hurts. 

For once I don’t protest as Erestor helps me out of my clothes and into a bath. I’m too exhausted to fight for my normal independence. He takes off all the layers of his clothes except for his undershirt and the linen shorts called braies that functioned as his underwear. Erestor rolls up his sleeves before grabbing the soap, lathering it up and beginning to shampoo my hair. 

I nearly fucking purr because holy shit dude. 

He starts humming as he washes my hair. It takes a moment for me to recognize Amhran na Farraige, the lullaby I sang to him that night on the road, but once I do, I can’t help but smile. Even humming, his nice tenor is warm and soft sounding, perfect for a lullaby. I let myself relax as his hands work through my still-short locks, taking his time with what feels like every strand of hair. With a pitcher, he rinses my hair, taking care to keep the water from splashing into my face. 

He grabs a washcloth and soaps that up, nudging me to lean forward so that he can wash my back and my arms. He frowns when he gets to the scraped palm of my hand, which gives a belated throb as he inadvertently also draws it back to my attention. He hands me the cloth.

“Keep washing,” Erestor says. “I will grab clothes and medicine.”

I nod and finish washing up, wincing as the soap bites into the wounds on my hands and knees. By the time Erestor comes back, I’m clean and the chill of the pool has been entirely replaced by the warmth of the bath. Erestor helps me out of the bath and wraps me up in the cloth towels that are the standard here. I need to introduce these losers to terrycloth, stat. He rubs me down with one towel, and when that’s soaked through, brings out another just to ensure I’m all dry. He helps me put on a plain chemise--long sleeved and going down to my knees--and I put on my underwear on my own. 

He leads me back into the front room and I try desperately not to wince at every step as my body begins to protest it’s abuse at a louder volume. Erestor sits me in a faded green velvet seat in front of the fire that he must have just started. He kneels before me, and it’s then I notice the side table--that normally holds a chess set, and wasn’t that trippy to see chess here?--that has three glass jars and a round of bandages. Before I can begin puzzling out what they’re for, Erestor has taken my right hand in his and turns it over to see the slightly bleeding palm. He inspects the wounds, and then reaches over to open up the jar with a white-ish paste that smells so strongly of herbs it makes me wrinkle my nose.

“What happened?” he asks quietly. I consider not telling him, but after my incredibly childish clinging to him, I know I can’t just let this go without comment. I keep it simple then.

“I got scared,” I tell him, just barely remembering to switch past tense. Erestor doesn’t say anything as he spreads the white paste on one palm and bandages it by overlapping the length of white bandages until it's essentially a fingerless glove. 

“Scared of what?” He starts on the other hand, moving slowly and talking slowly. Trying not to scare me again. Normally I’d get pissed off, but I’m just tired enough of my own bullshit that I actually--

I just appreciate it.

Being treated gently. I’ve never had it before. So I like it.

And if that makes me a little weak then that’s just something I’ll have to live with. 

It’s too nice to give up.

“The ellon at the statue,” I say. “Scared me. Like in the forest. Had to run, or I would die. The ellon was same feel.”

I can feel his hands tense around mine as he wraps my other palm. Is he angry? At me? I mean, I did do something pretty stupid. Led yet another chase through Rivendell, which is probably only the second time Rivendell’s ever had a chase. What was I thinking? Rivendell was safe for fuckssake. Did I offend someone important? Was the idiot who slipped on a wet dress actually some super important lord from another kingdom or whatever? 

But, that doesn’t sound like Erestor, to be mad at me for that. He didn’t scold me the first time I ran, though that may have more to do with the fact I didn’t speak a lick of Sindarin and now I can speak like, two licks. Did something change while I didn’t notice?

I watch his face closely as he works on the injuries on my knees, but it’s as blank as a marble wall. No hints from there if he’s mad or disappointed in me. 

My heart sinks into my chest at the idea of that last one. 

“Bad?” I whisper, testing the waters. “I did bad?”

His head whips up. “No!”

I flinch, my gaze immediately cutting away to avoid seeing him angry.

Erestor freezes, before taking a slow, deep breath in. He takes my right hand with his left, as his right hand comes up in order to gently cup my face, turning my head back towards him.

“Cýrlinnaril, you did good,” he says. “I am sorry that you had to run. Rivendell is safe. You are safe.”

“I know,” I say. “But I thought of night. Got scared. Running is safe.”

“It’s fine to be scared.” Erestor brings his right hand down to hold both of my hands in his. “Running is fine.” 

“Did not want to run. Want to be safe. But always, I run.”

“Running is fine, Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says again. “Run as you want. Run to feel safe.”

I nod. “Did that. Run to Erestor. Feel safe.”

Erestor sucks in a sharp breath and I watch him closely. He--

He smiles.

I’ve seen him smile, of course--little smirks as a joke, or cut off barks of laughter, or even an amused quirk of the lips--but not like this. He smiles so softly that it makes my teeth ache. That gentle smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners and causing a brighter shee--wait, is he tearing up at that? At me admitting he feels safe?

I knew it was sappy of me, but not that sappy!

Oh no, I already nearly cried today. Erestor can’t nearly cry today too! That’s way too much nearly-crying. And I already had a mild panic attack so he’s not allowed to have one of those either. 

Oh god.

What do I do?

“You’ll--” something “--be safe with me, Cýrlinnaril, I promise.”

I repeat his word.

“Always,” he says. “Always.” 

  
  
  


We stay in for dinner that night and Erestor makes lightly fried fish and simple sauteed greens. Simple fare, but good and filling. Could have used more carbs though, but I won’t hold it against him.

For once we skip the whole ridiculousness of me trying to sleep in my own bed and instead, Erestor tucks me into his own--which feels ridiculously nice--and lays down next to me, humming a song I don’t recognize. I get so distracted trying to figure out the tune to see if I could replicate it that Erestor flicks me on the forehead to remind me I need to go to bed. 

Alright, asshole, just for that I’m starfishing the second you’re gone!

(I think I did? In the end, I woke the next morning with my hands gripping his shirt, close enough that in Erestor’s own sleep he had managed to get an arm over my head to tuck me further into his side.)

  
  


The Bastard shows up the next morning, as he’s wont to do, but this time it’s a little different.

Erestor dresses me in the autumn dress because I insist on something comforting after yesterday and I insist on braiding his hair in one long braid down his back in return. I insist a lot of things and it’s very heartening that Erestor just takes it with a general air of amusement and indulgence. 

Bless.

Anyways, the Bastard shows up to scrounge off our breakfast of eggs-in-a-basket (courtesy of me) with a harp in his hands. It’s nearly the size of his torso, which throws my shit out of wack because I can’t tell for a moment if that means his torso is Just That Big or if the harp is a mini version. A second later I recognize that it's the latter, but I eye him warily even as I slide a slightly-overdone eggs-in-a-basket onto his designated plate. Erestor switches it out for his own. Bro, come on. Let me have this.

“Cýrlinnaril,” the Bastard says. “I have a gift from Elladan.”

Whomst the fresh fuck is that?

“Who?” I say.

He hesitates, his jaw working just once before he speaks. “From Elladan, the ellon from yesterday. Who scared you.”

“Oh.”

Elladan. 

Now why does that sound familiar? 

Oh shit, the silver lady from yesterday called him that too, and said he was her son. Wow, they barely looked alike. Also, may I just say how highly unnerving it is to have parents and children who look basically the same age? Fucking wack.

“He says sorry for scaring you and that this is an--” something “--gift.”

Oh right, the Bastard is still speaking to me.

I repeat his word.

Erestor explains and I nod, adding the word ‘apology’ to my personal dictionary. Cautiously, I wander over to the Bastard and the gift he’s holding. It’s harp. A small harp, about two and half feet tall, but generally normally harp shaped. I reach out to pluck a string, smiling at the clean note that hovers in the air. I pluck a few more, for funsies.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Harp,” Erestor enunciates. “You can look later. Breakfast first.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.” 

The Bastard sets the harp aside and we all sit to eat. My gaze keeps drifting over to the harp, thinking of all the tunes I could learn to pluck out on that thing and turn to actual music. Accompaniment, finally! Although I’m not sure how well I’d be able to play and sing at the same time. Well, have to try sometime. 

I eat breakfast quickly and immediately scamper over to the harp, plucking until I’ve gone through all the strings. Erestor and the Bastard eat at a more subdued pace while I play the scales and as ideas swirl in my head.

“No learning today,” I tell Erestor. “I stay home.”

He chuckles. “You must learn, Cýrlinnaril. You can play the harp later.”

I wrinkle my nose at him. Doesn’t he realize how important this is? “No, I want to stay.”

Erestor frowns, as the Bastard lets out a choked sound. “Cýrlinnaril, be--” something.

I don’t know what the fuck that is so: “No. Don’t know--” I messily repeat his word. “--so I stay. I play.” I pluck the string for emphasis.

And then.

Erestor.

Puts his hands.

On his hips.

“Cýrlinnaril, you are going to learn today,” he says. “We will go to Arwen.”

I’m torn between wanting to laugh at him and being appalled that he thought putting his hands on his hips is an effective method to doing anything at all. 

“Why?”

“Wh--” Erestor looks so cute all baffled. “You need to learn.”

“Why?”

“To speak.”

“Why?”

A bark of laughter from the Bastard and a heartfelt sigh from Erestor.

“Cýrlinnaril, please, don’t make this--” something.

Excuse fucking you, Erestor. You’re the one making this hard! Just let me do what I want. I’m not some little ki--

Oh wait.

Huh.

I eye Erestor to gauge where he’s at, temper-wise. He’s looking more and more irritated, but I think that’s with the Bastard’s poorly muffled giggling than with me. 

“Fine,” I say abruptly. “But I want cookies.”

“We’ll see,” Erestor says, rolling his eyes. The deal brokered, we both go upstairs and finish getting ready for the day. Erestor dresses both of us in blue again, and this time I insist on pants which he gives in to rather easily, likely too thankful for my quick acquiescence to going to school with Arwen.

We dress, we walk to the main hall, Erestor hands me off to Arwen and goes on his way.

I make it thirty minutes into the lesson before I ask to use the bathroom and then I book it back home. 

Sorry, Erestor, the call of music awaits!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i nearly forgot to post this bc i was too busy shoveling ben & jerry's down my gullet as i watched "The Queen's Gambit" but hey, better late than never
> 
> and re: poll about new fic from last chapter  
> i've decided to hold off on posting that. the idea is still circling in my head, like a shark waiting for the spill of blood (more accurately, like my muse waiting for a moment of distraction), but this story still has a solid hold on my heart so i want to continue with it. (also i'm already using this project to avoid writing my Big Boy Novel so i really, really shouldn't split my attention anymore lmao)
> 
> anyways, for those who are disappointed, just think of it this way: now you know that after this is finished, you have something new and cool to look forward to next!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting caught. But Ghibli music is more important and I'll die on that hill. Punishment. Punishment 2: Electric Boogaloo :'(

Back at home, I grab the harp and it’s not quite heavy, but it’s unwieldy as fuck. 

Nonetheless, I manage to haul it up and bring it out, dragging it into the woods for a little privacy to start figuring out the notes I’ll need for the Merry-Go-Round of Life. No one is ever truly worthy of the gifts of Joe Hisaishi, but I think Rivendell comes close. 

I leave the harp in the middle of a clearing before running back to grab a stick of charcoal and some paper to jot down notes. I can only barely remember what musical notations are supposed to look like, but I can muddle through it.

Just for, like, an hour. 

I’ll get back before anyone notices I’m gone.

  
  


I take a break to stretch, pleased with my progress, when I realize where the sun is. My eyes immediately go up and I wince because wow, don’t look at the sun, idiot. I shade my eyes, check again, do some mental math, and realize I was gone for not the one hour I planned but for nearly five. 

Oh god.

Erestor is going to kill me.

Then he’s going to resurrect me so he can kill me again.

“I’m fucked,” I mutter under my breath, folding up the precious pages of my score to shove it unceremoniously into my underwear. I debate leaving the harp where it is, but Erestor would probably be more pissed if I didn’t bring it back, so I heft the unwieldy bitch and make my way back to the house.

Hanneth--Erestor’s assistant--is waiting at the house when I emerge from the treeline. She looks mildly bemused for a moment when she sees me emerge all dirty and sweaty with the harp in my arms, but that quickly drops for a mein of solemness.

“Erestor is mad,” she says and I pull a face. “Please go inside. He will be here shortly.”

I make another face, but do as she says. 

I put the harp down and rush upstairs to switch the score from my underwear to behind my headboard. Then I go to the bathroom to scrub some of the dirt off of my body and my dress, as if getting rid of the evidence will work.

Wait, hold on, these people probably don’t have DNA matching.

Committing a murder here would be so easy, holy shit.

Oof, bad thought to have right now because I’m 80% sure Erestor is going to be raging mad at my direct defiance of his orders. I slink back into the front room and wait for Erestor to arrive.

And I don’t have to wait long.

I don’t even have time to take a seat when the door opens and Erestor is in the doorway. His normally smooth hair looks a bit ruffled and he’s missing his outer robe, which almost never happens. He looks right at me, taking me as I stand before him.

“Cýrlinnaril,” he says, his voice stern. “I am very disappointed in you.”

Do I deserve that? Absolutely.

Does that still hurt? Yeah, a bit.

Do I regret what I did? Mm. No.

“Sorry,” I say anyways. It’s not lying if no one finds out. Except Erestor pins me with a hard look and I can feel my shoulders begin to curve before I forcibly still them. But honestly, what was he expecting? Dangling a toy in front of my face and then expecting me to leave it behind?

“You made Arwen worry--”

Okay, that one also hurts.

“--you made Astordil worry--”

I do call bullshit on that one.

“--and you made me worry.”

Hello guilt, my old friend. I see you’re like a sledgehammer again.

“You were gone for several hours, and did not tell anyone.”

Well excuse me for thinking an entire city of elves would be able to find one (1) child without much difficulty. Then again, I basically lived in their backyard for five years with no one noticing, so maybe I’m overestimating how good these people are at tracking others down. 

Still, I remain silent, twisting my hands in my dress and keeping my eyes down. I bite my lip for good measure. Hopefully he’ll take pity on me and stop the lecture soon.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Ugh! I grimace at the callout. A hand under my chin and Erestor is tilting my head up before I can school my features into something suitably chastised. 

“No--” something “--at all,” he says, sighing as if in exasperation, but looking amused despite himself. “Are you sorry?” 

I pause. 

“Be honest.”

Well, if he says so.

“No,” I tell Erestor, finally meeting his eyes. “Play more imp-impro--”

“Important.”

“Play more important,” I say. 

He sighs, again. “Now I know how Elrond felt.”

Elrond? Erestor knows Elrond? Why didn’t he tell me? I wanna meet not-Hugo Weaving! Gotta shake his hand for putting up with everyone’s bullshit all the time. I know how you fucking feel, bud. 

Wait, this isn’t important right now.

“Erestor,” I say, grabbing onto him. “Sorry for worrying you, but look!” I grab his hand and drag him over to the chair of the dining nook and make him sit while I scamper over to the harp and settle beside it. “Here’s important play.”

For the five hours I was gone, I only have a measly forty five seconds of play time, but I honestly think that’s pretty good for me picking up a harp for the very first time and trying to make some music for it.

I pluck out the notes for Merry-Go-Round of Life, wincing sometimes as my fingers pluck incorrectly, but otherwise forging through. 

At the end of it, I look to Erestor, grinning.

He looks floored.

Which, I mean, is a totally fair reaction to Joe Hisaishi, even with my shit playing. 

“Cýrlinnaril,” he says, but stops there. I wait, but Erestor still does nothing besides look bewildered. Which is kind of funny but is now making me kind of nervous.

“Good?” I prompt. 

He nods. “Good. Very good.”

“Play is important,” I tell him, because now I’m feeling vindicated as fuck. 

“Not enough to do what you did,” he says. “And you will be punished appropriately.” 

And he ignores my complaining for the rest of the night.

What a bitch!

  
  


He does punish me by forbidding desserts for a week. And he’s also somehow gotten the rest of Rivendell to do it to because none of my usual dealers hand out my favorite cookies. They only apologize and say that Erestor said no. I used the teary puppy dog eyes on Camaen from the clothing craft section and STILL nothing.

Erestor might be more badass than I thought.

I respect that.

He’s still a bitch though.

  
  


Catch me another week later--no lessons today with Arwen off doing something--in the living room with all the furniture pushed aside to make room for the scattered scores around me, sitting in only my chemise and drawers and absolutely covered in charcoal marks, looking up at Erestor and his guest with the same shock they’re looking at me with.

Erestor, please, it’s the middle of the day. This is what you should expect me to be doing, but what the fuck are you doing here, with someone else that’s not the Bastard, when you should be at work?

“Cýrlinnaril,” he says, looking up to the ceiling as if he’d find some patience up there, before looking at me again. “Where are your clothes?”

“Upstairs,” I say, helpfully pointing up. “They were hot.”

“Put your clothes back on, please.”

“Party pooper,” I say in English, but I stand and go upstairs to do as he asks. If it was the Bastard or just Erestor alone I might have refused, but in front of a guest I suppose I should at least pretend to behave. Speaking of, who is that guy and why is he here?

OH SHIT MAYBE THAT’S ELROND.

He did have dark hair and dark eyes, but he didn’t seem to have that...aura. Like, Hugo Weaving had that gravity of authority, but the guy who came in didn’t. Maybe it was because he was dressed in pastel green? I just don’t think that matches the vibe of the Lord of Rivendell, but maybe I’m wrong. I throw on a yellow dress to match Erestor’s yellow under robe and go back downstairs. 

Erestor and the mystery elf are picking up my scattered notes, messing the order up terribly, but then I notice that the elf is staring really, really hard at the score I’ve frankensteined into existence with foggy memories. He’s so into it that I’m able to sneak up beside him and look over his shoulder to see that he’s picked up Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

“Want me to play?” I ask and grin as he jumps in surprise. “Well met, I am Cýrlinnaril.”

“Well met,” he says. “I am Lindir.” He pauses as he looks down at the music. “And yes, if you could play this, that would be lovely.”

I then realize I’ve locked myself into a performance with a stranger which is gross, but at least Erestor is here. I take a seat on the floor and hear Erestor’s almost-hidden sigh of exasperation. Ignoring that, I pluck out the tune to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, trying to shape my fingers in a way I remember seeing on videos so long ago.

At the end, Lindir looks just as surprised as Erestor was that day, which is kind of funny because this was just a little kid’s tune and Erestor got the whiplash of hearing Ghibli music for the first time. 

“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says, shooting Lindir a smug look. “Could you play what you played for me?”

Oh, he wants to school this clown. Well, who am I to deny Erestor such an opportunity?

I grin, turning back to the harp and beginning to play Merry-Go-Round of Life. Some of the notes are weird, because this harp only has so many strings, but once I get my hands on a large one, then I can really go apeshit. When I teach myself the whole Ghibli discography then it’s over for you bitches.

Oh, I should figure out the Spirited Away theme next. 

Holy shit, story of my fucking life.

One minute and forty five seconds later, I look back at Lindir and Erestor.

Erestor has a smug look on his face, looking like a cat who got the cream and the canary, while Lindir looks like he’d be less flabbergasted if someone slapped him with a fish.

“So, will you teach her?” Erestor asks. I balk.

“More lessons?” I ask, incredulous and unable to stop the whining tone from creeping in.

“It would be a pleasure,” Lindir says. “I’ll need to gather some materials, but we should begin right away.”

“Next week, perhaps?” Erestor suggests over my wordless cry of protest.

“That will do excellently,” Lindir says, standing. Erestor does as well and escorts him to the door, where they make their goodbyes.

Erestor turns to me. “Isn’t that nice, Cýrlinnaril?” he asks. “You wanted to play harp so badly and I’ve gotten you a teacher for it!”

I realize that the lack of dessert punishment wasn’t the real consequence of my actions.

Lessons, which Erestor knows I loathe, are.

Oh my god.

Message received, Erestor you little shit. The more I misbehave the more lessons you’ll put on me.

I groan and flop over on the floor, hating to admit how well played that was. Fake me out with a false punishment and then drop the hammer when I’m blindsided. What a fucking jerk. 

And I also hate how I just admire him more for it.

I really am a soft, squishy bitch.

There goes my street cred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry-Go-Round of Life harp cover: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zkkPHY9VcRE
> 
> in my docs this is seven pages, but i only just now realized how many single line paragraphs i have and i'm like huh.....this is technically super short.......bUT ALSO I'M UNACCOUNTABLY FOND OF HOW THIS CHAPTER TURNED OUT SO I'M KEEPING IT AS IT
> 
> also, for timeline purposes bc Cyr is shit at describing time: as of this chapter, Cyr has been in Rivendell for about two months and a week, which season wise makes it close to mid-June. just in case anyone wanted to know :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor, I'm keeping Jason if it's the last fucking thing I do--oh, hanging out with Arwen? Hell yeah. I'll show her how to make paper planes, that's not going to cause problems at all--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new art just dropped. look what MeadowOverYonder drew!!! cute little Cyr and her animal friends being cute as fuck but also Exactly In Character and!!! the first encounter between a Feral Gremlin and a Dad-to-Be lmaoooo just in case y'all forgot what a trip that scene was. take a look!!!!
> 
> https://pinetreesandtea.tumblr.com/post/641842402992291840/nothing-gold-can-stay-fanart-some-sketches-ill

Three weeks after that horrible panic and I’m settled in for a chill day because Arwen’s class got cancelled last minute. If the professor doesn’t show up within fifteen minutes, I’m legally allowed to leave. Not really, she was called to a meeting of some sort, but that left with me a free day and I’m going to use it to my advantage.

“Don’t be suspicious,” I tell myself, picking up a book and reclining onto Jason. “Don’t be suspicious, don’t be suspicious, don’t be suspicious, don’t be--” 

The door handle twists. I bury my nose in my book and pretend this is what I’ve been doing the whole time. 

Erestor has the exact same coming home routine every day. After entering and closing the door behind him, he slips his shoes off first and leaves them by the door, before undoing the collar buttons of his outer robe. He’ll go to the kitchen and unload his satchel of whatever he’s brought home from the main house’s pantry/market area, setting out what he wants to eat for a snack and putting into a giant cooling jar what we’ll be eating for dinner. Then he’ll go upstairs next and change out of his work clothes into something more casual. As spring slips into summer, it’ll probably be his preferred light linen house dresses. He calls them robes, but they’re dresses. He’ll come back down and then prepare a light snack before unwinding from the day by reading a book in his armchair until it’s time for dinner. 

Today differs because Erestor does the first two and starts going upstairs when he pauses. He looks at me from my position on the floor, leaning against Jason like she’s a backrest pillow while she idly munches on some hay I have stacked in a bowl next to her.

“No,” he says and then walks upstairs. 

N--

“What do you mean, no?” I shout, sitting up so abruptly that Jason looks at me balefully for a moment at jostling her. “Sorry,” I say, before I’m standing and following Erestor upstairs. 

“I mean, no, we are not keeping a barn animal in our house,” he says. He’s already in his room, taking off outer robe layer number two and hanging it up in his wardrobe, leaving him only in his under robe (and under that his under wear, because Erestor is a psycho who wears four fucking layers). 

“Jason is a good sheep!” I insist. “She devers--desfer--”

“Deserves.” He pulls out a dress and then shoots me a look. Yeah, yeah, I get it.

“She deserves a home!” I shout over my shoulder as I walk out into the hallway, closing the door behind me. “Jason deserves to live with me, as always.” I cross my arms, even though he can’t see me and wait in silence coming up with counter arguments as Erestor changes because apparently he’s too dignified to shout through doors like normal people.

Erestor opens the door, now changed into his casual clothes, looking exasperated.

“Wouldn’t Jason prefer being with other sheep?” he tries, attempting a cajoling tone.

“No,” I say, shutting that shit down real quick. “Jason help Erestor too! With hair! Weaven! No, no weaven. Woven? Woven hair.” Wait a sec, what’s the word for wool?

“Jason’s wool?” Erestor suggests, as we walk back downstairs. He looks at Jason again, who’s settled herself quite nicely on the floor and is taking a nap. Literally same. Sheep after my own heart.

“Yes! Jason’s wool help--helped--Erestor, in the wood,” I say, patting Erestor’s side as he begins to go around the kitchen assembling a snack tray. “Erestor return help now.”

Erestor gives me a look but doesn’t answer besides beginning to cut a loaf of bread into slices. It’s the baguette equivalent this time, and on the serving tray he puts the bread, three types of hard cheeses, some smoked meat sliced hella thin, a bushel of grapes, some fresh strawberries, and a small serving of sunflower seeds. I reach onto the tray and pick up some bread and cheese and shove it in my mouth before Erestor can stop me. He rolls his eyes, but he has a small smile on his face that tells me he’s amused instead of really irritated, so I figure it’s fine. He carries the plate to the table and sits in his usual seat and I sit in my usual seat to his right. Erestor takes a single grape and eats it, obviously thinking about something. I wait for him to get his words together, because I’m polite that way, and also because I’m shoving more bread and cheese into my mouth and can’t speak anyways.

“If--”

“YES!” 

“IF,” Erestor repeats louder. “If I am even to consider this, you must give a plan to how you shall care for Jason. Every detail, Cýrlinnaril.”

I give him a droll look. “Erestor, I live with Jason past time. I know how to care for sheep.” I point at Jason. “I cut Jason wool by self, just today. And have for five winters. I know, Erestor.”

There’s a flash of surprise on his face before it smooths into blankness.

“Five winters?” he asks. “You have cared for Jason that long?”

I nod. “With Corvo and Morrigan and Jason and me. Cared for all.” I assemble a little sandwich with two slices of bread and double cheese and meat. “Hard but fun.”

“And before those five years, where were you?” he asks softly.

I have no idea. 

I realize that, objectively, my existence is a head scratcher for them. As it is, I don’t remember how or why I got there, so I don’t have any answers for them. I wish I did. I keep myself from dwelling on it, because it’s sometimes too depressing to consider, but I have wondered, at times, where I’m from. Who I was. 

Did I have a family? Friends? Did they know me, and love me? Did I have a job? An education? Did I have any pets? Why can I remember jokes and cultural references with ease, but can’t recall the name of the place I lived, or what my house might have looked like? Did I have a favorite food? Did I have a book I would read over and over, until it’s spine was tattered and flaking, and falling apart in my hands? What sort of art did I like to look at?

Some of these questions I can get vague impressions of, or I can deduce something about myself then by looking at myself now. I must have loved singing and music, because at times it feels like that’s the only thing in my head. Just endless notes and choruses and melodies swirling and begging to be let out, with such a strong compulsion to sing it almost feels like an out-of-body experience. I must have liked myths and fairytales, because they’re easy to recall as well, but the existence of other books and other subjects that I’m sure existed fade from my head like smoke. I can recall basic science, but no details about any historical subject in particular. My clearest memory is waking up in the woods, that day five years ago, with only fractured images before that.

But to answer Erestor’s question: “City,” I say shrugging. “Big buildings. Light on windows. All I know.”

“Of your parents?” he asks, still quiet.

I shrug again, assembling another sandwich but this time assembled in a sequence of bread-cheese-grape-cheese-bread. Very difficult trying to keep it sandwich shaped with the grape ruining everything. I try to shove the whole thing in my mouth and regret everything because the grape pops out of my mouth and onto the table, and the lack of pressure means the whole sandwich falls out of my mouth and onto my lap and the ground.

We both look at the grape as it rolls to a stop.

Then at the mess around me. 

And then at each other. 

Erestor smiles first, but I’m the one to burst out into laughter and he quickly follows and the subject of my past fades away.

  
  


Today is supposed to be a rest day, but instead I’m dropped off with Arwen.

See, occasionally Erestor gets tapped for something and has to attend to something immediately. They’re terrible because Erestor deserves rest, damn them, but also he’s taken to dropping me off with Arwen so I’m super resistant to misbehaving. I can’t do Arwen dirty like that. So normally we just hang.

“Arwen, my apologies,” Erestor says, using a very formal way to say sorry. “Your father has--” something, summoned maybe? “--me. Astordil and Glorfindel are on rotation so there is no one to leave her with.”

“It’s alright. I was not doing much,” Arwen says. She says that but behind her are a pile of papers on her desk sorted into two comically large stacks.. Erestor and I exchange a glance, which is so fucking funny that I smile.

“Goodbye, Erestor,” I say to him. “Have fun. Arwen and I is good.”

“Are good,” Erestor and Arwen correct at the same time.

“Are good,” I repeat obediently. Erestor smiles, gives another goodbye, and is off. 

I take one look at Arwen and decide that she’s taking a break, so I tug her hand.

“Yes?” she asks. “What is it?” 

“Time for fun,” I say, beginning to tug on her hand to lead her out of her office. She pauses and I jolt to a stop. I give her a miffed look and then begin to lean with all my weight, as if that could make her move. I’m unable to actually move her, of course, but Arwen pauses at my whole-body strain. She’s listening, but I don’t have her yet. “Arwen, play is good. Come play with me.” 

Oh, she’s wavering now! Time for the kill. 

I look up at her, smiling as bright as I can. “Please?”

Arwen sighs. “Alright.”

VICTORY.

But what to do? The outdoor games I remember need more than two people. What could we possibly do? I haven’t managed to talk that woodshop apprentice into making Jenga for me, but that’s next on the fucking list I swear. Also dominoes, that would be cool. But that’s off topic.

Something two people could do.

Hopscotch? Nah. Nothing too physical. It’s getting hotter out. Maybe--

My gaze catches on the stacks of paper on Arwen’s desk and I grin. 

“Are you using?” I ask, pointing to the papers. “Dirty?”

Arwen looks over her shoulder and then back at me. “I am not using those. They are trash.”

“Trash,” I repeat, and also note that as a potentially fantastic insult. Too bad they don’t have clown equivalents here. That would also be a devastating clapback.

God, imagine that. A elf clown.

Don’t need to--the Bastard is right there.

HA! I crack myself up.

Anyways. 

I grab a stack of paper--at a closer look, they do look like used up notes--and I make Arwen carry half of them as I lead the way to where I remember the entrance to the highest tower being. 

“What are we doing?” Arwen asks, a tone of gentle bemusement. Unfortunately for her, I have no idea how to translate “we’re going to do what I did in every school I went to, which was go to the tallest point and throw paper airplanes off the side”. So instead I just smile and press a finger to my lips.

We get to the staircase and fuck, I remember these stairs being thigh burners, but now I’m committed. As we climb, we keep silent and focus on not dying as we ascend. Or at least, that’s what I’m doing. I can’t hear Arwen breathing heavy at all. Damn, isn’t that chick damn near chained to her desk? She should be way more out of shape than me. Ugh, adult bodies. It’s not fair.

And then, the top.

From the highest point, we can see nearly the whole valley. Arwen greets the two elves on guard here, while I immediately run to the edge to peek over and begin scouting where to target. 

“And what now, Cýrlinnaril?” Arwen asks, with perfect timing.

“Now paper birds,” I say and sit down, grabbing Arwen and making her sit too. From the corner of my eye, I can see the bewildered glances of the two other elves, but I ignore them and I grab a piece of paper--weirdly thick but not unmanageably so--and give one to Arwen too. “Watch and do, okay, Arwen?”

“Of course,” she says, with an amused smile. I know she’s humoring me, but I’ll still take advantage of it. I have to crease and rip a few sections of the paper to get it to the right size and then do the same for Arwen’s. And then I walk her through the folding and the creasing and the double folding. I can tell she’s a little confused, but she’s got the spirit in that she’s following along with what I do even though it’s not making any sense why I’m doing this.

I suddenly remember that Middle Earth has been around for a buttload of time and never invented flying machines. I frown, wondering if I should be doing this and risk changing everyone’s perceptions of aerodynamics, but by then I’m already finished with the plane.

Besides, aerodynamics always existed and if these people invented flushing toilets then there’s no way they wouldn’t have at least some theory around this shit. They probably just didn’t bother going further with it because there wasn’t a point in making airplanes, since I doubt there’s gasoline here. 

Whoa. That’s wild to think about.

No dinosaurs, no fossil fuel here. Damn. No wonder Sauron was the greatest threat here. They didn’t have to deal with oil companies. 

Lucky bastards.

Anyways, paper planes are harmless fun and Arwen and I already went through this much effort so we deserve a pay off. I stand and pull Arwen up with me. Despite being a first timer at this folding shit, her paper airplane looks better than mine which is so totally unfair. 

“Like this, gentle,” I tell her. I look around and see a large fountain a little ways down and point at it. “Aim there.” And then I throw my plane. 

I hear a chorus of gasps and look over my shoulder to see Arwen and the two guards looking on in gobsmacked shock.

Oh god.

Tell me they aren’t going to make a big deal out of this.

It’s just gliding, dudes! Birds do it all the time! Chill your tits! Ugh, I can’t look. I turn my attention to my plane that’s charting a smooth course to the fountain before the wind picks up and throws it into a tree. Goddammit.

There’s a pause and I shoot Arwen a look.

“Arwen, you throw,” I prompt, elbowing her in the side. She jolts, looking down at me with an uncomfortable amount of surprise that makes me frown. 

“Yes,” she says. “I’ll throw.” She steps closer to the railing and, with the same gentle touch I had, sends the plane off. It’s a fabulous throw. I’m not jealous. The wind does not throw his plane off course and okay, I am jealous of that. Her plane makes a steady glide and descent until it’s a speck falling into the fountain and I can just barely see it begin to sink.

I cheer, slapping Arwen on the arm in glee.

“Good job!” I tell her, because that was a damn good shot. “More now!” I sit back down and drag another paper over to me, but Arwen remains standing for another moment. Ugh. I tug on her robe’s hem to get her attention and after another moment, she sits, pulling a paper obediently to herself. I smile. Good girl. 

I may have shocked the hell out of her, but at least I achieved my goal of distracting her from work, so today’s a win!

  
  


(I don’t know if Erestor hears about the whole paper plane thing, but he does eventually approve of letting Jason stay as long as I take care of her and keep her away from his books, so I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. )

(Or a gift sheep, in this case.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i ate an entire package of Oreos when writing this chapter, so if the content seems a little nonsensical, i'm blaming the sugar rush that's been inflicted upon my poor, abused body


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harp practice with another song. What about me singing out loud in a public space make people think it's okay to harsh my vibe? But the silver haired lady is cool I guess. And then...oh no...not again...stupid defective, leaky eyes, what the--

  
Good news: I finally have a harp that’s my size, that I can carry around without strain.

Bad news: I’ve become a teacher’s pet.

Which, okay, in my defense, it’s impossible not to be a teacher’s pet when you’re a) the only student, b) motivated for personal meme song reasons, and c) insert point a here but with more emphasis. Also, Lindir has really been riding my ass about learning the scales and has been tattling to Erestor about my quiz results so I need to actually work at this. Luckily, they’re the same ones I remember learning from Julie Andrews when she was a Swiss nun, so that’s nice. 

But practice is still necessary so here I fucking am. Today, I’m at the lookout garden, near the path up to the residential area. This place is always deserted in the middle of the day, since everyone’s doing what they need to do and it’s nice and quiet. I look around cautiously, before standing up and poking around a bit for any elves in the area. Clear, and that makes me relax a bit as I sit back on my spot near the base of the tree facing the view off the cliff with my back to the main walkway and as hidden as I can possibly get. I settle in my patch of cushy grass and pick up the lap harp again. 

It’s been a month since I last sang outside, away from the safety of home, but it feels like I can risk it, since no one is around. Another suspicious glance as I strum the chords I’m thinking of, but again, no one suddenly pops up like certain dark haired, grey eyed elves we’re not constantly on the lookout for now. 

_ My God, I'm so lonely _

_ So I open the window _

_ To hear sounds of people _

_ To hear sounds of people _

_ Venus, planet of love _

_ Was destroyed by global warming _

_ Did its people want too much too? _

_ Did its people want too much? _

I sing quietly, since this song always feels like it’s meant to be a conversation and not a performance. Yet even outside, the acoustics are somehow fantastic, picking up my notes and letting them drift back to me, creating this strange echo. But it’s not bad.

_ And I don't want your pity _

_ I just want somebody near me _

_ Guess I'm a coward _

_ I just want to feel alright _

_ And I know no one will save me _

_ I just need someone to kiss _

_ Give me one good honest kiss _

_ And I'll be alright _

The chords to be played here take a bit of concentration, but I think I pull it off with only a few fumbles. Hey, look at that, practice really does make perfect!

_ Nobody, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody _

_ Ooh, nobody, nobody, nobody _

Bizarrely, I think of that old Greek myth and I laugh to myself during the bit of strumming at this part.

_ I've been big and small and _

_ Big and small and _

_ Big and small again _

_ And still nobody wants me _

_ Still nobody wants me _

_ And I know no one will save me _

_ I'm just asking for a kiss _

_ Give me one good movie kiss _

_ And I'll be alright _

Ain’t that the dream? To be alright? Just that, just that, and it’s so hard sometimes. So fucking hard. But even that’s worth fighting for. That’s enough. To be alright is enough.

_ Nobody, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody _

_ Ooh, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody, nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody _

_ Nobody, nobody, no _

A moment as the last note hovers in the air and I smile, laying my fingers on the strings once again to--

“That was beautiful, little one.”

I jolt and the chords jolt with me. I look over my shoulder to scowl at the person who surprised me, but instead I blink in surprise at the beautiful woman who’s leaning over me. The first thing I notice are her eyes--a dark green color, filled with warmth and light--and the way it matches perfectly with her silver hair. 

And it’s silver hair.

Pure, shining, brilliant silver.

The urge to reach up and touch it nearly gets me but luckily she starts speaking and distracts me.

“Ai, I’m sorry for startling you,” she says, looking actually sad. But then she smiles at me again, something soft and motherly. “It seems that is something my son and I have in common.”

Son?

Oh, wait a minute.

This was the silver lady that was standing next to Erestor that day I flipped my shit!

Oof.

Talk about a bad first impression.

“It’s fine,” I say. Then, because I remember my manners: “Well met, my name is Cýrlinnaril.”

“How polite!” she says, her smile growing wider. “Well met, Cýrlinnaril! I am Celebrían.”

“Hi,” I say and then stop there. What the fuck else am I supposed to say? I look down at my notes. I need to remain focused on practicing rather than having fun, seeing as how every single fucking time I try to sing outside someone scares the shit out of me. What the fuck is with elves and not being able to mind their own business? Stay in your lane, guys! Freakin old busy-bodies... 

“May I sit with you?” she asks. I shrug, running through the chords again even though I know them. There’s another pause and then Celebrían sits down beside me. I hear a short burst of murmuring behind me and look around the tree to see three other well dressed ladies waiting on the path, looking at Celebrían in something like horror as she plants her white-dress clad ass on the dirty ground.

Okay, what is going on here?

“Do you like Imladris, Cýrlinnaril?”

What the fuck is Imladris? Am I supposed to know what that is? Fuck it, just smile and nod. 

“Good!” she says. “I am glad to hear that. My daughter says you are a diligent student, and I can see that is so!”

“Daughter?” I ask, because who the fuck--oh. “Arwen?”

Celebrían nods. “Yes! She says you are doing well in your language studies. And from what I heard, you are doing quite well on the harp as well. Do you enjoy playing and singing?”

I nod, still cautious, but if she’s Arwen’s mom, she can’t be that bad. Although she does have a son who is not fantastic, but since I’m a generous and magnanimous person, I won’t hold that against her. 

“I like it,” I say out-loud. “Makes me feel nice. Good. Light.” I play a chord progression, half to display, half to keep my fingers busy. “There is lots of music in the head. It should play.”

“Do you have any other songs?” she asks. “I would love to hear.” 

Whyyyyyyyyyy

But she’s looking at me with patient eyes, 100% non-judgemental and open, and I can feel myself caving. UUUUGGGHHHHHH. Fine. I settle the harp in my lap and play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, since this little harp isn’t big enough for Merry-Go-Round of Life and I can’t do Joe Hisaishi dirty like that. At the end, she claps vigorously. Alright then.

“That was wonderful!” she exclaims. “You’re so talented. Your father must be so proud.”

My whomst now.

I tilt my head at her. “Father? I have not father nor mother. Only have Erestor.” 

She smiles at me, something slow and kind and so sweet it sets me on edge. 

“That is what I meant, little one,” she says. “Erestor is your father.”

Uh. 

Think I would have fucking noticed that, lady.

“What?” I ask, because this concept obviously needs more explanation. 

“Erestor is your father, in all the ways that matter,” she says, an odd sort of soft joy radiating from her. “He feeds you, and clothes you, and cares for your heart and soul. That is what parents do for their children.”

That’s--

Wh--

I--

I don’t know how I feel about that. He’s been taking care of me, yeah, but that’s just. That’s just the whole “needs a village to raise a child” thing, right? Letting the wild gremlin elfling into your house because she’s your responsibility and shit. Tit for tat. I saved his life, he takes care of me. Simple, uncomplicated stuff. 

Like, I’m not an idiot, I know Erestor likes me. He’d have to in order to put up with my bullshit. But liking a kid and being able to put up with one for a little while is far cry from fatherhood. That’s. That’s way too much to ask of someone. I can’t burden him like that. Besides, my child appearance aside, I don’t need to be parented. I’m totally fine. 

Erestor’s just. He’s cool, I guess. Cool enough that it’d be nice to visit him after they kick me out, if they’ll let me. Not sure how exile works here, but I’m confident I can sneak back in if I need to. He said always, so that means I can trust him that far, I think. Or maybe Erestor will be tired of my shit and not want to see me, in which case, that’s fi--

That’s ok--

It’s all--

Why the shit am I crying.

I blink rapidly at the tears that overtake me but I suddenly can’t stop. I feel like a puppet, my limbs working on someone else’s orders and out of control as my lungs suck in a huge gasp of air and I’m suddenly bawling at the thought of Erestor not being there.

No more breakfasts in the mornings with the sunlight in the kitchen, or him helping me with the hard words in books, or the lullabies we’ve only just started up again with me on the harp. No more head pats when he’s pleased with my progress or his classic “I’m rolling my eyes, but I’m really actually amused” looks or any smiles--

I’m afraid, I realize.

I’m afraid.

Of Erestor not wanting me.

Of me not being good enough to be wanted. 

Of having to go back, alone, to the cold, still dark of the woods and away from sunlight and water and bustle of this place.

Of me not being worthy of it.

Hands on me and I’m being hauled up into Celebrían’s arms and she’s cooing and trying to soothe me but I can’t stop crying, I can’t--

There’s voices and sound but nothing’s processing beyond me being in Celebrían’s fragile feeling arms and the wrong scent in my nose and the horrible, aching gasping pain of loss hitting me in the chest like an ocean wave, dragging me under.

I can hear Celebrían trying to soothe me, stroking on my back, but it only brings a sense of wrongness. A sense of not-Erestor.

Which just makes me cry harder.

There’s a part of me, cold and detached, that’s watching this all play out while in a Hawaiian shirt and sipping a daiquiri. It’s telling me what’ll happen next. They see me like this, and they’ll get Erestor. Erestor will come, because he’s responsible, and he’ll see me like this, an absolute wreck. He’ll realize what a massive mistake he’s made and I won’t have enough time to say sorry before I need to go. This is the beginning of the end.

Hysteria makes me push my way out of Celebrían’s arms and slam right into someone else. 

Ink-book-lavender scent. 

Erestor.

“Sorry,” I blurt out, choked and muddled, gasping around the word. I grab at his sleeve, something to keep me steady, something to keep him in place. “Sorry, Erestor, sorry, I’m sorry.” I’ve gotta say it, gotta get it out before I’m gone. “Sorry.”

He picks me up, which is surprising. I’ve convinced myself being dragged by the collar is the best I’d get at this point. He settles me firmly in his arms, pushes my head under his chin so he can more fully wrap me with clothes and a reassuring scent.

“It’s okay, little one, let it out,” he says, stroking my back like he did the last time I lost my shit like this. I think about pushing away from him, but then I think this might be the last hug I get so I cling tighter instead.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I speak in refrain, but I can’t seem to stop myself. 

I have to apologize. For everything. 

For every mistake I’ve made, for all the trouble I’ve caused, for being a nuisance, for being a pain... 

For being...me.

“It’s okay,” Erestor says. “It’s okay. I have you. You’re safe. You don’t have to be sorry, Cýrlinnaril, it’s okay. I have you. You’re safe.”

Refrains and choruses from each of us. Pushing to get the other to listen, but unable to listen in return. What a pair we make. But Erestor’s voice is a double echo in my head, his words in my ears, his heartbeat against mine. I fade to silence and let him take over the chorus, a stronger voice than mine.

It’s okay.

I’m safe.

He has me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i should space out the emotional scenes more so i don't overwhelm anyone  
> also me, but in a dark hood a la Kermit: but what if......i didn't do that......
> 
> song: Nobody by Mitski, cover by Chloe Moriondo - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5CVhmrFrBg


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week. A promise. A dream. A song. (and a nosebleed is also somewhere in there)

Erestor takes the week off. It’s reassuring but also fucking embarrassing. How did that time off request go? “Sorry, bossman, can’t come into work today. The disaster child that lives in my house seems to be having non-stop panic attacks and can’t be trusted to exist without supervision.”

So far, Erestor’s walking on eggshells around me--which is fair--while also trying not to walk on eggshells around me--which is on brand for him. Our daily lives have been monotonous, but also a rather nice monotonous. Everyday we wake up and make breakfast. The Bastard stops by to drop off fresh ingredients, but otherwise doesn’t stick around which is weird, but also nice. Then Erestor and I go outside and we do something. Sometimes we use the swing I set up in the Bastard’s front yard, or we’ll go take a walk. (And I’ll add to my collection of cool rocks and sticks because I physically cannot stop myself). We’ve gone down to the orchards and had snacked on fruits plucked straight from the trees, with me giggling the entire time at the criminality of it all.

If we’re close enough to home, then Erestor will bring us back inside to have lunch, which will be whatever we have left over from snacks or unused ingredients from breakfast. Afternoons will be whiled away with Erestor reading out loud while I sit with him or with Jason, or me playing and experimenting with different bits of music, or Erestor attempting to teach me chess. Sometimes I can convince him to go back outside so we can find one of the numerous fountains around and stick our feet in to cool down in the summer heat. 

Dinner is an interesting affair. Normally we go out to the dining hall because I’m normally there after my lessons with Lindir or being babysat by one of my many sitters, and Erestor is normally there because that’s where he works, but that’s not the case now. We stay home and cook together. Erestor was weirdly insistent on it, even though I know he doesn’t like seeing me handle knives.

After dinner he tells me stories. For several nights in a row, he tells me of Beren and Luthien and their love and other tales that are light hearted and fun, with the only darkness to emphasize the light. 

Then he tells me stories of his own life. He talks of where he was born, in a place called Tirion in Valinor, where there was only light and joy and peace. He talks about a brother called Tecilion who was only ten years older than him who dreamed of becoming a warrior. He tells of a father called Caro who made mosaics and a mother called Hyellissë who crafted glass, both of whom taught him the value of beauty. He talks about how young he was--barely older than sixty--when his parents followed someone called Fingolfin and how it brought them to cross the Helcaraxë, where he lost his brother and his mother to the snow and ice. He talks about his father, a craftsman and an artisan, learning to take up a sword to fight and die for his liege in Dagor-nuin-Gilith, the Battle-under-Stars.

“Erestor alone,” I murmur, sleepy with the motion of his hand stroking up and down my back. It’s warm here in the summer evening air, as we sit on the bench in front of our house with the star-watching turned into me dozing lightly on his shoulders. “Like me.”

“Yes,” he says. “I know what it is like to be left alone, my child, and I know the pain you carry. But Cýrlinnaril I will not leave you. These are times of peace, and further, I do not often leave Imladris. I am not often exposed to danger.”

“I found you bleeding,” I mumble, my hands clinging harder to the material of his shirt.

“I know,” he says. “But it will not happen again. I will not leave the valley until you reach your majority, Cýrlinnaril, this I promise you.”

“You can’t.” I know that by now. He’s too important to the valley. Even I can see it and my observation skills are shit. They’ll need him and he’ll have to go.

“I will not,” he repeats. “I have already asked, and Elrond has promised me. For over four thousand years have I known Elrond, and never has he broken a promise.”

Like I care about that. “Promise me,” I say. “Promise me.”

“I promise you, Cýrlinnaril, I will not leave you, if you can promise the same.”

“I promise.”

* * *

**I stand in an open doorway, staring out at the sea.**

**It is slightly cloudy, and the sun has not yet risen in the sky and it shades the world in the gold and indigo of the predawn light. The waves slip softly onto the shore, a shifting mass of wine-dark water and bone-white foam. Before me, the beach is made of grey small pebbles and coarse tan sand. Down to the right, a mere few meters from where I stand, a small dock made out of wood stretches a few dozen feet outwards into the ocean, with a small boat tied to it that bobs in the waves.**

**I look over my shoulder. The beachside hut is small, with enough room for a bed on a raised wooden platform, a small kitchen area with a monstrous stack of firewood, and a bookshelf full to bursting with knick knacks. The wooden walls are decorated with a child’s charcoal depiction of birds and flowers and trees. By the door rests a collection of salt-crusted nets in a basket and a rack of drying seaweed.**

**I turn back to the beach, to the view of the sea.**

**I shift my weight, the feel of the wood underneath my bare feet creaking with me. There’s the click-rattle of sound above me and I look up to see a windchime made of seashells, threaded together to form an elaborate spiral.**

**Another wave crashes onto the beach.**

**I need to...do something. What was I doing again? It was important.**

**“Cýrlinnaril?”**

**I blink, slow, as if my eyelashes have been dipped in molasses.**

**Who said that? Why?**

**“Cýrlinnaril!”**

**Are they calling me? That’s not my name.**

**My name is--**

* * *

I wake to Erestor pressing a handkerchief over my nose, the fragments of my dream fading with a sudden panic as I try to breath and I swallow down blood instead. I choke.

“Cýrlinnaril, it’s okay,” Erestor says, and his hand against my back, anchoring me in place, does more for my emotional state that I want to admit. “Sit up, lean over. You must let it bleed out.”

“Blood should be inside,” I say, my voice nasally from how hard Erestor is pressing the cloth to my nose. Even in the dark, I can see him crack a smile.

“In most cases, yes, you are correct,” he says. “But in this, you are not.”

I grumble, but I let him maneuver me into sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning slightly forward with my head tilted down so that blood flows out of me. 

“What happened?” I ask, although it comes out more like “wub’habean’d”.

“Well, I thought you were--” something “--on me,” he says. Drooling, I guess? “But when I woke to use the water closet, I saw this instead.” He points at his shoulder, where there is a sizable bloody spill on it. “In honesty, I am grateful you bled on me, and not on my pillows.”

“I can do that too, if you want,” I say, but it comes out more like “uh’cuh’du’tat’tu, iv’yu’wan”.

“Do not trouble yourself,” Erestor says, magically divining what I said for the second time in a row. He heads to one corner of his room, where he keeps a small bowl of water because he’s literally Cinderella I guess. He strips off his nightgown and begins to use the edge of it to clean his shoulder of the blood that’s soaked through the fabric to his skin. “I think this might be due to the heat,” he says, pondering aloud. “You must drink more water to stay refreshed, Cýrlinnaril.”

Christ, it’s like 3 am right now, am I really getting a ‘stay hydrated’ lecture right now? Fuck water. Apple juice for life.

Erestor changes into a new nightgown and then goes to light a candle, using the light to double check the cleanliness of his sheets.

“Still good enough to sleep on,” he says, setting the candle down so that he has light to check my nose by. “Ai, let’s clean up your face too. No need to go around looking like Astordil.”

“Astordil doesn’t bleed,” I say as Erestor crosses the room again to grab another clean hanky from his wardrobe and dip it in the water. “Astordil makes others bleed.”

“Well that’s true,” Erestor murmurs, wiping at my face. “I think your nose has stopped bleeding then. Are you ready for bed?”

I shrug. 

“Let’s try for it,” he says and lays me down and tucks me in as he takes the time to put the dirty hanky away and blow out the candle. Then he pads over to the bed and slips in, immediately opening his arms for me to burrow into. My head rests on his shoulder and I tuck myself under his arm like I’m a chick and he’s a hen, taking me under his wing. Erestor sleeps on his back, one arm circling me and the other resting on his sternum. 

In three quick breaths, he’s asleep, but I’m a little slower to follow.

I was dreaming something, I think, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was, which is kind of annoying. 

Well, whatever. It was just a dream.

  
  


It is the afternoon of the last day of Erestor’s vacation.

We’re spending it on a picnic at my newly-declared favorite fountain. It’s such a pretty thing. It’s half circle with about three feet in radius, one foot deep, and made entirely of colorful tile in a geometric pattern. It reminds me of the elaborate Islamic tilework, but like. Less impressive, because I remember soaring ceilings and whole temples and this is just a fountain. It’s still gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but the main reason I like looking at it is because it brings up such vivid memories for me for some reason. Erestor says it was a gift from the craftsman of Mithlond to King Gil-galad in the early Second Age, when Ost-in-Edhil was being constructed and it was recovered from the ruins and repaired when Rivendell was founded.

This, of course, means nothing to me because I have no idea who any of these people are or where he’s talking about and even though I’m dying to know, I don’t dare ask. Then Erestor will say I need history lessons and that’s gonna be a no from me, lads.

So anyways, we picnic here, because I insisted. Erestor carried the picnic basket filled with sandwiches and my pathetic attempt at potato chips. He gave me a wary look when I insisted on bringing my harp with me, but this is important so I ignored it. Yes, he’s put it together to--every time I sing outside, I get freaked out someway, but I’m determined to shake that bad energy off. 

If I can’t do it with Erestor nearby, then damn, when else will I ever?

So we sit, we eat, we chat and I get to practice my rapidly improving Sindarin as Erestor delights in making me play a synonym game, but then I decide it’s time. I clean my hands in the fountain and pat them dry with my skirt before sitting--properly now, thanks to Lindir--and pull the harp forward. It’s gratifying to see Erestor sit up as well, paying attention. I didn’t have the time or energy to translate it into Sindarin, but that’s next on my list.

But acapella first.

_And it's hard to write about being happy_

_'Cause, the older I get_

_I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject_

_And there will be no grand choirs to sing_

_No chorus could come in_

_About two people sitting doing nothing_

I start plucking the strings here, the harp translating neatly to the piano from the original song.

_But I must confess_

_I did it all for myself_

_I gathered you here to hide from some vast unnameable fear_

The plucking becomes faster, more dynamic, but nothing I can’t handle while also singing.

_But the loneliness never left me_

_I always took it with me_

_But I can put it down in the pleasure of your company_

_And there will be no grand choirs to sing_

_No chorus will come in_

_And no ballad will be written_

_It will be entirely forgotten_

_And if tomorrow it's all over_

_At least we had it for a moment_

_Oh, Erestor, things seem so unstable_

_But for a moment we were able to be still_

I wonder what he’s thinking. I know he can’t understand the lyrics, but he understands what I mean, right? He gets that I’m comfortable with him, that I’m...that I’m happy here, despite what has happened. And that I’m glad for it, for this, no matter what might happen in the future.

He gets that, right?

_And there will be no grand choirs to sing_

_No chorus will come in_

_No ballad will be written_

_This will be entirely forgotten_

I vocalize a bit, as the song winds to a close, and only at the end when I lay my hands on the strings to stop the vibrating do I finally look up. Erestor isn’t crying, but he is smiling wide and bright. On closer look, he may be tearing up a little.

“Did you hear?” I ask him. 

“I heard,” he says back. 

Then he opens up his arms in an inviting and obvious gesture and I don’t hesitate to throw myself forward, letting him wrap me up into a hug that made me break into a grin myself. In the familiar, safe comfort of his hug, I know that I’ll have a long way to go to get better, to not freak out like I did before. I know it’ll happen anyways. But I also know that I have Erestor with me to help me and to support me. To prioritize me, above even his much loved work.

“Thank you, Erestor,” I murmur, just loud enough that he can hear me.

“Of course, my child,” he says. “Anything for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we get some of Erestor's past!!!! and a very odd dream from Cyr, huh, wonder what that could mean :3c
> 
> lmao i nearly forgot to post this bc i ignored the fact it was Monday ( ; 3 ; ) i want my vacation to last longer. i got....so much writing done......now that's over and i'm smad (sad and mad). anyways, can't do anything about it now. see you guys this friday with an update for Diverged in a Yellow Wood!
> 
> time check? it's been three months and one week since Cyr's arrival in Rivendell
> 
> song: No Choir by Florence and the Machine - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_c3P-YWLpQ


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to school. Singing in the herb garden. Also: pasta! (Finally.) And not one, but TWO deep, horrible, terrible revelations.

Day one back to normal. Which, honestly, I think Erestor was more nervous about than I was. I’ve gotta do something to reassure him. And to reassure me too, I guess.

“Erestor,” I say, grabbing the edge of his sleeve to get his attention. He immediately stops grabbing papers from the kitchen table and kneels beside me, so he’s even with my line of sight and is listening intently.

“Yes, Cýrlinnaril?” he asks. “Are you feeling alright? Would you like to stay home?”

I take a deep breath in. I steel myself. Then I raise my arms. “Carry me, please.”

He blinks.

I wait.

Erestor smiles. “Of course,” he says, and immediately wraps me up in his arms and lifts me, settling me on one side and supporting my entire weight with one arm as he uses the other to pack his papers into his bag and slings that onto his shoulder. He carries me the whole way, down the path and into the main hall. People double take when we pass, but no one comments on it beyond typical morning greetings.

Arwen looks a bit surprised when Erestor opens the door, me in his arms, but covers it quickly with a smile.

“Will you sit in on today’s lesson, Erestor?” she asks.

“Unfortunately, I cannot,” he says back. “But I will be here to have noon break with you, if that is acceptable, Arwen?”

“Of course, Erestor,” Arwen says, smiling warmly. “Now come, Cýrlinnaril. We’re going to do more abstract concepts today.”

Joy.

  
  


I’m planning something, so that means I need supplies.

Erestor and the Bastard are back home, prepping the kitchen, trusting me enough to run to grab what I need before coming back. Currently, Corvo and Morrigan are hopping around me, digging for insects in the hospital herb garden, while I plug sprigs of herbs to use for tonight’s dinner. After pushing for it for several days, Erestor finally lets me take control of the kitchen at home and I’m determined to make the most of it.

It’s when I kneel to start picking that I remember the song. No guitar but I can make do. It’s empty enough here that as long as I’m quiet, I should be able to pull off singing without interruption.

_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Remember me to one who lives there_

_He once was a true love of mine_

I grab the thyme that I need, taking a bit of time to smell it and revel in the fresh scent of carefully tended herbs.

_Tell him to make me a cambric shirt_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Without no seams nor needlework_

_Then he’ll be a true love of mine_

No parsley, sage, or rosemary for me this time. Instead, I hunt down the oregano plant, which is much smaller than the other ones around.

_Tell him to find me an acre of land_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Between the salt water and the sea strand_

_Then he’ll be a true love of mine_

I take a moment by the lavender to take a few sprigs, because I think Erestor should have some more. He’s been stressed out lately, and it’s mostly because of me, so I really do owe him. 

_Tell him to reap a sickle of leather_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_And gather it all in a bunch of heather_

_Then he’ll be a true love of mine_

I finish picking all the herbs necessary for dinner and I wrap them carefully in the large handkerchief Erestor provided. I let out a sharp whistle to Corvo and Morrigan and they look at me--a bit petulantly, honestly--before taking off in flight as I head back towards home. 

I round the corner and jolt in surprise when I see Silvers standing there like a creep.

“Ai!” I say, because that’s the exclamation everyone uses here and I’ve picked up on it, even though ‘fuck’ is clearly superior.

“My apologies for startling you,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I say, checking on my bundle of herbs to make sure I didn’t crush anything with Silvers scaring the piss out of me. “But we can talk later. I have to get home for dinner.”

He smiles, reaching out to pat my head, which I allow. Even though Silvers and I don’t cross paths often, he just gives off a good vibe. 

“I shall see you again, Cýrlinnaril,” he says.

“Yeah, bye Silvers!” I say, taking off into a sprint. Astordil isn’t around to yell at me, so I take ruthless advantage.

“Silvers?” I hear behind me, but then I’m around the corner and gone.

  
  


At home, I gleefully dive into dinner preparations, because I’m stupid excited about this.

With flour and eggs at my disposal, I have several ideas of what to do, but something I’ve been craving demands it be made first. I had noticed that although noodles exist here, but not pasta. 

See, noodles and pasta are not the same. Noodles go in pasta, but pasta is more than just noodles. Pasta is the whole experience. Pasta is the glory of carbs and veggies and sauce and meat in this beautiful, enlightening, awe-inspiring experience. 

Elves just have noodles. Granted, they’re close to using noodles properly. Most of the time they go into soups or stews to add carbs to the mostly meat-and-veggie concoctions to make a more rounded meal. That’s too stew adjacent to really be pasta, but I’ll take what I can get from a race that hasn’t discovered pesto yet. 

But pasta as it’s own dish? Not seen. 

I had no idea why when it was such a versatile dish, but when I asked Erestor he said that’s because pasta--which was some other word in elvish, but fuck that shit it’s PASTA--is a battle field food and people don’t like it. Which makes sense I guess. A lot of these people are older than balls so they’ve probably fought in wars. If the only shit they had to eat back then was pasta, then I understand how they could have grown to hate eating it. Apparently the few times I had seen it at dinner was at the request of a few soldiers in particular, who were regarded as weirdos for liking it. I, personally, considered those few soldiers as the only valid bitches in this whole valley, but no one asks my opinion on this stuff so whatever.

Anyways, this is all just a very long way to say that I spent two whole fucking days making eggplant parmesean for Erestor. 

While my heart and soul cried for pesto, I put it off because I know eggplants are Erestor’s favorite vegetable and he’d probably appreciate this. He doesn’t seem to dislike heavy food, as long as he has wine to wash it down, so yes, I did have the Bastard get me a bottle even though it took trading him my coolest rock to do so. 

The reason the actual making of the pasta took so long is because I had to wait for the bread to dry out to make bread crumbs and I didn’t have an oven to hasten it along. I had to lay several plates outside and cover them with cloth so Corvo and Morrigan wouldn’t get any ideas. And they didn’t have chicks, by the way, they were just hanging out by the butchers and getting free food. So valid of them, but still. How dare they get my hopes up like that. Ah well, maybe next year.

Anyways, I also had to make the tomato sauce from scratch and I sent the Bastard back and forth to the main house pantry several times to get more and more jars once I overshot my initial estimate. And Erestor totally knew I was doing it on purpose, but he didn’t say anything because he’s the best. (Although he was the one who made me go get the fresh herbs right now, so I guess Erestor’s made us even.)

The pasta I also had made from scratch, and even though Erestor made a face every so often as we were kneading, he still went along with it, which was very sweet even though at this point, I could tell Erestor’s opinions about pasta were the same as everyone else’s here. Since that opinion was wrong, I felt very little guilt at making him help me. 

Since I’m a nice fucking person, I let Erestor invite the Bastard over for dinner, although I think he was recruiting moral support. I allowed it because we made a shitton and I knew the Bastard ate like he was trying to become a vacuum cleaner. 

The Bastard set the table while Erestor and I cooked. We had only one burner so I had the Bastard bring two travel ones so we could have the pasta boiling, the sauce heating, and the eggplant cooking all at once. The salt-dried slices of eggplant I was using went once into the flour-pepper-salt mixture, then into the egg-milk mixture, then into the breadcrumb-oregano-thyme mixture before I placed it into the pan for Erestor to watch. I only had to tell him once when to take a finished piece out of the pan and then Erestor knew what exact shade of brown I was looking for. The oil drained onto paper that I nabbed from Erestor, but he didn’t complain so he must not have minded so much. After the last slice went in, I worked quick to wash my hands and be back to plate everything, including shredding a fuckton of the parmesan-equivalent all over this fucker.

As we sat down to eat, I couldn’t stop grinning at the look of wary curiosity on Erestor and the Bastard’s face. They had their wine, I had my apple juice, and I also had zero compunctions in waiting for them to get over themselves before I ate.

First bite and oh my god.

Cue porn star moan here, except I didn’t because I was too busy chewing and savoring and enjoying all that glorious carbs and fried food and deliciousness. 

Glorfindel, however, had no such restraint.

I look up at his ‘I’m being sexed up’ noise with surprise to see his eyes closed in bliss. Which, okay, same but on god dude, can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to eat. And then I look at Erestor because can you believe this shit, but I find that he’s also looking at Glorfindel. Like, staring at him.

Is he--

There’s a slow flush crawling up Erestor’s cheeks as Glorfindel, in blissful ignorance, flicks out his tongue to catch sauce on his lip.

Are they--

Erestor’s gaze shoots back to his plate when Glorfindel opens his eyes and goes for another bite. Erestor reaches for his wine glass and takes a sip so long it qualifies as a gulp. The whole time, Glorfindel watches the bobbing column of his throat with sidelong glances.

Oh my god.

Oh my fucking god.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

THEY FUCKIN. 

OH THEY FUCKIN--

Wait, no, they can’t be.

Because if they were in a relationship, they would definitely have moved in together because Erestor is just That Serious of a dude, and I don’t think he wouldn’t tolerate a friends with benefits situation. 

So this means they ain’t fucking.

But they both want to be fucking.

Holy shit balls, this might actually be worse.

I can feel my eyes drying out with how wide they are with this discovery, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Oh my god. Holy shit this explains so much. Why the Bastard is always over. Why they get along so well and sometimes seem to work without the need for words. Why they’re nearly always together.

They--

Holy shit how was I so blind.

Erestor looks at me. I can see a flash of panic on his face and he quickly shovels a bite into his mouth. There’s a soft thud and Glorfindel shoots a glare at Erestor--ah, he got kicked--and then the golden haired elf looks at me.

“Oh!” he says. “It’s very good, Cýrlinnaril! I’ve never had a meal like this. It is very delicious.”

Right. Okay.

First, thank you for saying so.

Second, not important right now, Bastard, I’m trying to reconcile the idea that Erestor might-perhaps-maybe-possibly wants to have sex with someone as annoying as you.

Oh god, this is why Erestor can tolerate all my bullshit. He’s already used to the Bastard’s bullshit. It all makes sense now.

Shit, so I have the Bastard to thank for Erestor’s patience with me?

Ughhhhhhhhhh

“This is marvelous, Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says. “I was surprised by how good it was. Where did you learn to make this?”

“I don’t know,” I say, putting another forkful into my mouth. A blatant play to avoid answering more questions, but I don’t care because I’m eating pasta for the first time in a billion fucking years and I’m not wasting anymore time talking. This mouth is meant for eating pasta and talking shit only. 

Slap that on a T-shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so Cyr figures out Glorfindel and Erestor are pining for each other from one (1) sexually charged dinner experience and a bit of hindsight reflection before the two involved--who've been like this for a thousand years at this point--notice it themselves. let's hear it for the clowns of Imladris!!!
> 
> timeline: it's been three months and two weeks since Cyr's arrival in Rivendell
> 
> song: Celia Pavey - Scarborough Fair https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9_bluYa9Xc 
> 
> the fact that there's no cover of this song in the full version as a duet with call/response format is a crime tbh


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spending the day with the Bastard. UGH. But also: time for revenge (part 1).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at this lovely art of Cyr that Sevil_Franc did!!!! i personally love how bright gold the eyes are like, yes, good, perfection!!!! and her smug little smirk is fucking so in character i'm dksafjdksafjldsl;afjdkjafkfjdkslafsa
> 
> https://mobile.twitter.com/Franc21562771/status/1363955293093310467

I have returned to an emotional equilibrium during the same week a trading caravan comes in. I know they come because the day of Erestor kneels in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders, making eye contact with me as he speaks.

“Our trading partners from Arnor have arrived for the summer shipment,” he says. “You are not to interact with them.”

Bro, I just woke up.

“How long?” I ask, yawning and rubbing my eyes free of sleep. Erestor brushes my hair back from my forehead with a flick of his fingers. The strands fall back in place. My hair is still short, but it’s growing longer everyday. I’m in the awkward, feathery stage after a short haircut but before it’s bob length and I think it annoys Erestor on a deeply personal level. 

“A week--yes, I know.” he says, smiling slightly at the look of disgust on my face. “During this week, you are not to go to the main house for any reason. Keep to the residential area at all times, am I understood, Cýrlinnaril?” 

“Yes, Erestor,” I say. Then I brighten: “So no lessons?”

“Not quite,” he says, ruthlessly crushing my heart and having the audacity to laugh at my surprised-pikachu expression. “Arwen will be unavailable for writing lessons so Hanneth will be over to assist you with that. Lindir has not been able to find a replacement for your tutoring, but I assume you wouldn’t mind the afternoon free.”

“Yes!” I say, cheering. Then: “Wait, no, I would not mind having the afternoon free.” I glare at the burgeoning smile on Erestor’s face, because I’ve done this before and he’s undercut me because he thinks he’s so funny. ‘Yes, you do mind having the afternoon free? I can amend that for you.’

NOT TODAY, SATAN!

I’m just kidding, Erestor, you are not Satan. I know you have no idea what I just thought, but I’m sorry anyways.

“I’ll be working late for a while,” he says, bringing me back to the present as he cards a hand through my hair. Again, my hair flops back into place. “But I shall try to be home before meal times. If I am not, then Glorfindel has promised that he shall make sure you have food, since he will be the one watching you in the afternoons.”

The Bastard???? UGH. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? I swear to god, I haven’t seen him do a lick of work since I started living here.

Wait.

This is. 

This is good actually.

I need to play a prank on him to get back at him for shit.

Erestor sees the grin curling across my face and I can see his internal debate wage before he decides to Not Ask. Good choice, Erestor. I knew you were a smart boy.

Besides, with what I’m planning, he’ll never hear about it so all’s well that ends well.

  
  


I sit through Hanneth’s lesson like a good little elfling and by the end, she is thoroughly done with my shit.

Okay, so by “sit through” I really meant I was a little shit and not even sorry about it. Grammar lessons are obnoxious. I already know how sentences should be structured, because I’m picking it up verbally with everyone talking to me all the time. I don’t need to write this shit out, like, come on. Also, most of my and Arwen’s lessons were basically field trips, where she would take me outside and teach me words by pointing stuff out and playing synonym games. So having to stay inside to write endlessly on paper?

BORING.

So I was slightly obnoxious and purposefully did things incorrect, or asked convoluted questions, or asked her about when Erestor was coming back. Or asked for lunch, or asked for a break, or started folding my papers into origami flowers--which she also got distracted by before reeling herself in--and basically, I was just a nuisance.

Really soz on that, Hanneth, but lessons ended an hour early, so I’m taking the win where I can. 

And then.

The Bastard arrives.

“Hello, Cýrlinnaril,” he says. His golden hair is loose as always, and he’s dressed in his usual himbo ensemble: a pale, cream yellow shirt with blue embroidery on the collar and the wrists and worn with the neck ties left undone and parted to reveal the top of his pillowy man-bosom; a pair of breeches in the same shade of blue to match the embroidery, held up with a brown belt that has a small leather pouch and a knife attached to it; and a sturdy pair of brown, knee high boots. However, this time, he also has a basket on his arm.

“Is that food?” I ask, creeping closer to peek under the cloth before he rudely lifts it out of my reach. Asshole.

“Ah, ah,” he says. “It’s a surprise.” I grumble my displeasure before I see he’s going for the blankets in the nearby cabinet thingie and I cheer up again. 

“Picnic?” I ask, grabbing onto his pants and tugging just this side of too-hard.

“Indeed, little one,” he says, and I can see his other hand pulling up at his pants and it is an honest to god struggle not to bust out laughing. “I thought we might go outside a bit, since you’ve been inside all day.”

“Yes!” I bolt upstairs to get my shoes, but go to a creep when I enter, because Jason is taking her midafternoon nap. “Be back, Jason.” I whisper to her in English. “No pooping. You already did that this morning, so wait until I get back to do it again please.”

Downstairs again, I immediately throw myself against the Bastard’s legs, though he doesn’t fucking budge, this brickhouse. Ugh.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

Alright, go time.

I look up at him, smiling as brightly and innocently as I can, trying to emulate pure delight and love of life in a concentrated beam. It is very difficult, and judging from the way the Bastard’s whole face morphs into an expression that screams “AWWWWW”, I deserve an Oscar for my performance.

“Carry me!” I say, holding my arms up in the universal pick-me-up pose. 

“Of course,” he says, and leans down to do just that. 

I’d like to thank the Academy, my parents, the muffin man--

I freeze for a second, at the sensation of arms wrapping around me, and I can feel the Bastard freeze too. Impressive, that. A quick reaction. There’s a breath of pause, where I can sense he’s considering not picking me up, but I stubbornly wrap my arms around his neck and hold on. 

Like I’m gonna let some stupid fear stop me now.

“Up we go,” he says and yup, up we do go. Erestor is about the same height as he is, but for some reason it feels like I’m higher up than usual. Or maybe that’s just because the last few times Erestor has carried me, I’ve had my face tucked into his robes like a little bitch-baby.

Ugh.

The Bastard walks outside, me held in his arms while the basket of food dangles from an elbow and I give it a few steps before I grab a fistful of his hair and tug--gently--to get his attention.

“Higher!” I insist when he looks at me.

“Oh, of course, princess,” the Bastard says. “Give me just a moment.” He’s speaking in the same indulgent tone some other adults in this place use on me, the classic ‘I'm just barely restraining myself from cooing at you’ voice which would normally be deeply insulting, but since I need this today, I’m putting up with it. He looks around and then sets me down to stand on a nearby bench while he pulls his hair to the side and starts braiding it so it’s out of the way.

Nice effort. I shall undo it posthaste. 

Hair taken care of, the Bastard kneels on the ground and lets me climb onto his shoulders, so that my legs are dangling on both sides of his neck as he holds me steady with two hands on my ankles.

Shit.

This really is high up.

For a moment, I get distracted by my new vantage point, utterly enchanted at the view. It feels like I can see for miles more. I can see the tops of the trees more clearly, and the sky feels so much closer. We set off to the center of the residential area, where there’s a large oak tree in a little park area that’s perfect for picnics that Erestor and I have been to a couple times before I found my fountain. I tilt my head back, feeling the sun on my face. It feels a little like the sun is warmer too. Obviously just my imagination, but it feels that way. How funny, how simple and delightful just being like this is.

I’m so caught up in it, I nearly forget why I wanted to do this. 

Luckily, I remember after we cross paths with two elf ladies--my bad, elleth--as they giggled as the Bastard tried to nod at them as we passed. I reach down and begin to undo his braid. 

“Cýrlinnaril,” he says, slightly scolding, but doesn’t go farther when I divide his hair in half and twist it into little coils.

And now--

I gasp dramatically. “Glorfindel! Glorfindel, you’re a horse!”

“What?” he asks, laughing a bit.

“Horse! And I’m a rider, like Astordil!” I flap the reins I’ve made of his hair, but nothing happens, like I expected. I lean slightly to the side to make eye contact with him. “Horses go faster after that.” I tell him seriously and flap the coils of his hair again. The Bastard looks torn between amusement and embarrassment. Which is fair, given we’re getting slightly closer to the center of the residential area, and there are more people around who are subtly and not so subtly watching us.

“O-oh?”

I nod and sit up again.

“Go, horse, go!” I shout at the top of my lungs. I flap his hair. There’s a moment of pause, before I hear a disbelieving chuckle coming from the Bastard. Then, he gets to a nearby bench and slips the basket off his arm.

Wait.

The Bastard goes back to the path and shakes his body out a little.

Hold on.

“Okay, we’re going to go faster,” he says, his hands locking like metal bands around my ankles. 

Oh shi--

I shriek, half with fear and half with exhilaration as the Bastard starts booking it. I lean in close to his head for self preservation and through the wind whipping through my hair and the intense speed, I end up laughing with delight, despite myself. 

“Faster!” I cry, and let out a whoop as he actually does go faster. 

He races for nearly a minute straight, before finally slowing to a jog. My heart is beating rapidly in my chest, but I can’t stop giggling.

“That was really fast!” I announce. “Good Glorfindel, you are a good horse!”

“If you want something faster,” he says, only slightly panting as he makes his way over to the bench he left our lunch. “Then you should ride an actual horse. You truly feel like you are flying, atop a well bred steed like we have here in Rivendell.” He pauses. “Of course, you shall have to ask Erestor for lessons.”

I groan. “No lessons. I’m tired of lessons. Writing and harp are enough.”

The Bastard finds a shady spot beneath the oak tree’s branches and easily pulls me off of his shoulders and sets me on the ground. He lays out the blanket and then immediately flops down on it. I pull the basket closer and begin to dig through it. There’s two sandwiches, and a waterskin filled with water, but the rest of it are different cookies and sweets. 

Typical Bastard.

The Bastard’s finishing the last of the little lemon cake bars when I enact part two of my revenge. First plan of public humiliation didn’t go as well as I wanted it to. Once again, he’s managed to turn my dastardly plot into something that benefits him. Jerk. 

But I have a trump card.

I wait until the Bastard is taking a sip from the waterskin before I speak.

“You should let Erestor ride you,” I say, casual as you please. I have to cram another cookie into my mouth to keep from laughing as the Bastard spits up his water into his lap. He goes into a coughing fit and I very helpfully and very eagerly start whacking his back as he attempts to hack out his lung.

“W-what?” he asks, sounding like a chain smoking chainsaw with how rough his voice is.

“You should let Erestor ride you!” I repeat with forceful cheerfulness, like a kid who doesn’t understand the innuendo. “It was fun so you should let Erestor do it too! I think he would like it!”

“Right,” the Bastard says, sounding garbled. “I’ll--I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I think Erestor would be hard,” I say solemnly. “It would be rough and may not fit, but I think it would work.” I intentionally fuck up my grammar a bit, to make it sound like plausible mistakes to make.

The Bastard lets out another garbled sound. He seems torn on whether or not he wants to bury his face in his hands in embarrassment or to stop me from talking, so innocent and ignorant am I of these innuendos. 

“Erestor is as big as you are, so you need to be careful-er.”

“Yes, right.” 

He can’t even look at me, gaze locked onto the ground in mortification, so I let my face break out into a shit eating grin before I corral it again.

“So he might not fit on your shoulders.”

“Likely not.” 

I’m just gonna keep doing this until he stops me.

“But you should try!” I insist. “You should go slower though. He likes slower and--”

“Lovely advice, Cýrlinnaril!” the Bastard interrupts, finally breaking. “But how about these walnut cookies, hm? Are they good?”

I pause for a moment, soaking in his mortified expression and his desperation to avoid this topic, and I feel satisfied with the torment I’ve inflicted upon him.

“Not as good as the spice ones,” I say back and the Bastar--Glorfindel looks so fucking relieved at the change in conversation that I almost lose it. 

Man. 

So funny. 

I can’t wait to do this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone asking for bonding with Glorfindel: here you go! lmao but yeah, i know this is a slightly shorter chapter, but filled with so much chaos, i figured y'all wouldn't mind lmao
> 
> also i can't fucking believe it's march of 2021. fuck. i'm losing my mind. i hate this. this is insane. fuck man. fuck.
> 
> anyways, see y'all next time


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human-watching time! Wait, nevermind. Also, it's getting to summer and is hot, so local idiot finds a way to cool down. Toilets and sewage systems, part 2.

Because I’m not an idiot and I don’t want to backslide, I actually follow Erestor’s instructions to avoid the traders from Arnor. For a week I stay out of the way of the main house, even though it’s boring as fuck, and I don’t complain about it. To be honest, the mind-numbing boredom is quite worth it when Erestor comes home and smiles that relieved smile when I’m plucking out my next tune on the harp or putting ribbons in Jason’s wool. 

When they leave, however, I do sneak out to watch them go from far, far away. I take a perch up by the kneeling woman fountain that was the start of my last chase, because it’s about forty meters away from the main entryway--enough space that I can see what’s going on, more or less, but I’m also hidden from view from there because literally no one ever looks up.

To be honest, it’s a little strange watching all of these humans next to elves. 

Mostly because watching them reminds me that I’m not human anymore. I’m an elf. I’m a legit, actual elf with the ears to prove it. I’m going to outlive all of them and isn’t that a wack thing to consider: immortality. 

Well. Actually, I’d argue that elves aren’t immortal, because being immortal literally means not being able to die. Not to sound like an idiot, but elves can die if they’re killed, and it’s only the fact they stop aging, or age very, very, very slowly that just gives them the appearance of being immortal, but in reality, they are not actually immortal. 

Wonder where that misconception came from.

Anyways, another interesting thing is that the humans are all dressed in darker clothes, for one, all muted browns and greens and greys, rather than the pretty light colors Rivendell elves favor. Even from this distance, the humans are all a noticeably few inches shorter than most of the elves. I can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for them. Reaching top shelves here must have been awful for them. 

There’s one guy who’s basically controlling the movements of the men, directing them this way and that. He’s in clothes that look a little nicer than everyone else’s so I’m assuming he’s the leader of the trading caravan. Even from this far away, I can see long, platinum blonde hair that’s all shiny and reflective in the light. It’s not elf-long, but it’s definitely longer than anyone else’s more restrained shoulder-length hair. Some elf lady that looks vaguely familiar is talking to him, but it looks like he’s managing to keep the thread of the conversation going even when turning to yell at someone over his shoulder. Damn. Does he have eyes on the back of his head or something?

There’s a caw, loud and strong, and I look up to see Corvo making a smooth arc over the nearest building and aiming right at me. I hold an arm out, steady and strong and waiting, and he alights heavily. I grunt, but I manage to redirect the sudden drop of my arm to carry him into my lap.

“Oof, maybe stop going to the butcher’s, kiddo?” I say, flipping him onto his back and beginning to card my fingers through his feathers over his inner wings like I know he likes. I look back up to see how busy everyone still is, and if I can risk going to see Erestor since this looks to be wrapping up.

Across the span of space between us, he sees me.

I don’t know how--the angle isn’t good and there’s trees in between us that I must be camouflaged by--but he sees me. 

He’s looking right at me.

I can’t make out the minute details of his face, but his body language has turned from at ease to alert. He seems to be barely paying attention to the growing fuss around him as the rest of the caravan assembles to set up, and is completely ignoring the elf lady who’s still by his side. I frown. I don’t recognize this guy, but who is he mistaking me for? Maybe he just doesn’t like being watched? Even as I think about it, I’m not convinced. 

He’s...unnerving, a bit.

I can’t explain it but something beyond just being seen makes me feel odd.

Decided, I right Corvo in my lap, despite his squawk of protest, and I hop off my perch. 

Peeking is done. I’m going home before Erestor can catch me breaking the spirit of his rule, if not the letter thereof. This isn’t a backslide--I don’t feel the weight of panic around my neck--but it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I’m doing to cuddle with Jason until I can forget I ever felt the sensation of it.

And I’m definitely not breaking Erestor’s rule the next time these guys come around, that’s for sure.

  
  


It’s a few days later when the weather turns.

And now it’s hot as balls. 

Full disclosure, I’m not actually how hot balls are supposed to be, but my point is that it’s entirely too hot to be possible. For once, I actually miss my woods because with the trees and the shade and the river nearby it was at least twenty degrees cooler. Coasting at a solid “pleasantly warm” instead of “sweating from every pore imaginable”. 

I literally have no idea how these elves were managing to look so fresh and unbothered by it. It’s fucking insane. 

It’s a day without classes again because Arwen’s finally pronounced me passable in general communication and writing so we’ve scaled down from lessons six times a week to four, and Lindir’s lessons are only four times a week anyways so it’s nice my schedule matches. I have no babysitters today because I told Erestor I was just going to stay inside and read. 

But honestly?

Fuck this shit.

Fuck it.

I can’t stand the heat anymore. 

“Come on, Jason, we’re getting out of here,” I get up from my position on the floor and grab her leash, attaching it to her collar, thoughtfully gifted to her by the Bast--Glorfindel. Man, it’s hard to shake that habit. I grab a cloth towel from the cabinet-standy-thingie and out the door we go. I almost whine at the sudden bombardment of heat, but instead I just direct us down the path to the main house, to the corner near the hospital/healing rooms because I know there’s a giant ass fountain there with a whole bunch of huge trees shading it and that sounds like the perfect place to cool off for the afternoon.

I keep my pace at a solid jogging clip, because otherwise people want to stop me to chat and like hell I’m gonna do that. I do wave at anyone who calls out to me, which is a hefty number, and it makes me feel bad that I recognize like ten of them. But literally, how the hell am I supposed to remember so many people’s names? It’s fucking impossible.

I stop by the kitchens to grab some bread and cheese and apple juice, and then I continue en route. 

At the fountain, there’s no one waiting at the benches around it, only a few people in the distance who are heading elsewhere or what not. There’s no decent pool around here, but this fountain is the deepest in Rivendell that I’ve found so far--a resounding three and a half feet deep, but I’ll make do. 

I undo Jason’s leash so she can sit under the shade and munch on the grass a bit as I lay my towel on a nearby shaded bench. I put my meal out there too. Then, after a glance around to see if anyone is paying attention, to which the answer is no, I strip off my dress. Left in only my tunic and drawers, I take a bite of the bread and cheese before heading to the fountain and stepping in.

It’s cool and soothing and it feels so damn good I sigh in relief. 

Pure fucking bliss.

I submerge myself as much as possible, grateful for Rivendell’s water systems which keeps every fountain here clean with fresh water constantly being moved through the system. Rising, I shake my head out like a dog and grimace at the feeling of my hair sticking to the back of my neck. Gross. To distract myself, I turn on my back and just float for a bit, trying to suck up all the cool I feel in the fountain to distract from the heat of the air.

I wish desperately for a pool noodle or something, to rest my body on, but alas, I have to suffer. 

I close my eyes, content to just float and relax, but that only lasts for a few minutes before I get restless. Now that I’m cool, I want to do something. What do I normally do in pools? Synchronized swimming routines? Laps? Ugh.

Well, doing laps sounds better than nothing. 

The fountain is oval shaped, so that’s close enough to laps, although one end takes me out of the shade so that’s gross. In my three and a half feet of clearance, I managed what a blindman would call reminiscent of a breaststroke and what someone with eyes would call flailing in a vaguely frog-inspired manner but I did what I could. It was still fun, to see if I could do it even if the activity itself wasn’t super mentally engaging. The stream I had in the woods wasn’t deep enough for anything other than crouching in the middle and getting up to the hip bones in flowing water. Besides, I normally used that for bathing, not for anything idle like this.

Ten minutes later, I haul myself out of the fountain to take a snack break. By now, I know several elves have spotted me, but no one’s said anything so I’m gonna just assume it’s fine. If someone tells me to get out, I’ll just pretend I can’t speak Elvish. I’m enjoying this too much to pass up. I sit on the bench in the shade and eat my bread and cheese and wash it all down with my juice before I immediately go back into the water.

I’m not tired yet, but I know I will be eventually, so I actually take the time to relax this time. I float in the water, breathing slow and even to make sure I don’t accidentally swallow anything. Not that I think anyone’s pissed in here, but you know. Can’t be too careful. 

“Cýrlinnaril, what are you doing?”

Garbled words, given that my ears are underwater, but I recognize the tone of voice and I crack open an eye to see Erestor giving me the world’s most unimpressed and baffled look. It’s doing double duty on that, which is mighty impressive.

Still.

I’m too chill right now.

“It’s too hot at home,” I say, closing my eyes again. “So I came to cool down.”

“A public fountain is not the place to cool down,” Erestor says. “We can draw a cool bath for you at home.”

“But I’m already here?” I refuse to open my eyes, paddling with my hands a little bit to get further into the shade. 

“This isn’t an appropriate place, Cýrlinnaril.”

“No one said not to, so that means it’s okay.” I flap my arms to get some water to wash over my front to cool that side down more. 

“That is not how it works at all and you know it.”

Erestor.

You are harshing my vibe so bad right now.

“Can’t hear you,” I call. “My ears are underwater.”

“Oh for the love of Elbereth,” he says. Then: “Well, Cýrlinnaril, it seems you would like swimming lessons as--”

“I think I’m done now,” I interrupt, abruptly switching my posture so that I’m standing in the fountain instead of floating on the water. The water only comes up to my clavicle, standing normally as I am now, and I begin to front crawl back to the edge where Erestor is waiting. He’s standing there with the towel already prepared like the devious fucker he is.

Actually.

He’s standing rather close. 

Huh.

Am I going to be that pett--

Why do I even ask myself this question anymore, the answer is always yes.

“Is Jason still nearby?” I ask when I get close. Erestor looks up and I put my hands together, fingers overlapping to create an overall vague triangle shape and I push against the water and--

BLUB! Suction and dynamics and other science-y stuff here makes it soar up in a beautiful, sparkling arc and--

Erestor’s head turns--

And he gets a faceful of water.

I immediately burst out laughing at the shock and incredulousness in the expression on his face. Erestor looks down at his chest, which is also soaked in water, and then at me.

“Oh, is that how it is?” he asks, a smile curling his lips, and then he’s kneeling--

Fuck--

His hand is in the fountain--

Shit--

Yup. 

My turn for a faceful of water.

So obviously this means war.

I can’t stop laughing as I try to hit Erestor with a big splash, but what it has in quantity, it lacks in distance. Erestor’s one-handed scoop method is the opposite in that it doesn't have a lot of water, but it has more distance than mine. Also Erestor’s aim is downright uncanny and he nails me in the face several times. 

“I give, I give!” I shout, after getting hit directly in the eye for the third time in a row. Grumbling, I blindly make my way over to where I hear his voice coming from, tilting my head up to ask for help. Before I can, I can feel fabric on my face as Erestor gently wipes at my eyes. 

“I assume that suffices as a lesson?” Erestor asks.

“ _ How _ did you  _ do _ that with  _ water _ ?” I ask, hauling myself out of the fountain. Erestor wisely steps back as I drip all over the grass.

“Practice,” he says, wryly. Then he holds up the cloth towel around me, so I’m concealed between that and his own body mass. “Now off with your underthings, you’ll just soak the towel.”

I wrinkle my nose at him, but strip obligingly. I’ve barely wriggled out of my drawers before Erestor is bundling me up with the towel. He tucks the cloth firmly around me and uses some sort of witch craft on it that has my arms free and then opens his arms in a becoming-more-familiar gesture of “do you want me to carry you?”

I nod and in an instant, I swept up bridal style into his arms. 

Okay.

Interesting.

We’re rocking it though, no worries. 

“Teach me,” I demand as he begins to walk away. 

“I would like to say when you stop being a troublemaker I will, but I do have a feeling that would be an impossible task for you.”

“I’m not a troublemaker,” I say. “You just don’t know fun. That’s a you problem.” The phrase sits awkwardly on my tongue, since I've had to translate it, but I also get the joy of watching Erestor’s face as he processes the words.

“That’s a you…” He pauses. “I think I’m going to use that.”

“You can if you teach me,” I say, smiling as sweetly as I know how. Erestor gives me an amused glance. We’re crossing into the building when I remember: “Hey, Jason!”

“I’ll send Hanneth for her and your clothes later. I highly doubt anyone will touch them in the meantime.”

Yeah, not like they’ll fit anyone else around here. Pros of being the only kid around: no one steals your shit. That sort of makes up for being so fucking short, I guess. 

  
  
  


At home, Erestor dumps me in the bath and scrubs down every inch of me because he suddenly remembered that swimming in fountains was apparently dirty. Weirdo. It’s not like our bathwater doesn’t come from the same mountain source. Which I know, because I’ve seen the plumbing charts.

All the water in Rivendell coming in from the river is filtered. There’s an entire hall a little more north-east that functions as a filtration plant, sending the water through layers of natural filters to purify it as much as possible before continuing on to the main areas of Rivendell. From there, it goes to the main house and pipes take it to the buildings where it becomes water for baths and for sinks and for toilets. Drinking water is a bit more rigorously filtered once in house, of course, but overall, the main point of this filtration system is to clear the water from visible debris. (And nonvisible, but after the paper airplane thing, like hell am I going to be the one to bring up germ theory.)

As well, the mystery of sinks versus bowls of water is solved by how close the specific bathroom is to one of these filtration centers AND SLASH OR how close someone is to a well. Because Rivendell is too fancy of a bitch to have only one water source, they need two. Although that’s fair, because I have no idea if this river freezes during the winter or not. Best have a backup. Anyways, the closer you are to a filtration center, the more likely there will be sinks and community baths. 

Right.

Forgot about that.

Erestor IS high up as someone important because apparently having your own private bath is a very privileged thing. Arwen told me that most people use the public baths that are in the basement of the main house, or use sun-warmed showers if they’re not close, i.e. working on the farms in the valley. Not really sure how the baths worked, but from Arwen’s brief description I got a very Roman vibe. Maybe. Anyways, not applicable to me because again, Erestor’s enough of a lucky bitch to have his own bath. 

Anyways, I did ask Erestor and he brought me to the archives--where I got to see Theithor who has the most earrings I’ve ever seen on someone as well as _the_ most elaborately styled dreadlocks--and he showed me a whole as chart on where the water goes and why.

Turns out the pipes for used bathwater and sink water go down the valley and into the orchards to help water them. Yay recycling I guess.

And turns out that toilet water and everything else just gets fucking dumped into the second river. At my undisguised disgusted look, Erestor rushed to explain that no, they don’t just dump it in the big one where all the drinking and bathing water comes from, but instead it’s directed down a second river that the elves put there on purpose to specifically carry waste out from. Apparently it goes out to a strip of land to the south, squished between the river and the mountains, where it becomes a ‘waste stabilization pond’. Not really sure what that is except a sludge of poop and piss, but Erestor assures me it cleans the waste as much as possible and then becomes a place where every few years a group goes out to plant things like trees and bushes and stuff. 

That sounds...fine. As a system. Like, I’m far from a waste management expert, but I presume after thousands of years of civilization--as Arwen told me it’s been for elves--that they’ve probably worked out the best possible system for all of this. 

All in all, it was an interesting field trip and a fun little peek into the inner operations of Rivendell. It’s like a swan--all graceful on the surface but paddling hard just to get anywhere. It’s oddly soothing, to see that. That for how elegant elves appear to be, that there’s serious effort put into it. Erestor laughed when I told him that comparison so that means it was probably a good one. 

Anyways, back in the present day and at home, Erestor gets me toweled off again. He feeds me a little more food, even though I’m yawning through the whole thing. I’m vaguely aware of things becoming more and more dark as my eyes keep drifting shut, and then the feeling of being lifted and carried. I hear a door open and Jason’s soft bleat and then my head is hitting a pillow and I’m officially out like a light.

“Sweet dreams, Cýrlinnaril.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love wasting my time thinking about and designing infrastructure of fantasy worlds instead of doing something productive #justauthorthings
> 
> anyways, thank you so much for all the comments and the kudos and the bookmarks. this fic has only been up 5 months and i'm honestly a little surprised how quickly the numbers are changing, so thank you! i'm glad you enjoy this slow paced gremlin's life in Rivendell. there is.......literally so much more where that came from.
> 
> time passed since Cyr has gotten to Rivendell: four months and two weeks (consider this mid-August)


End file.
